


F.U.B.A.R.

by JBMcDragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blind Character, Clint Needs a Hug, Crack, Drama, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Team as Family, Team!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBMcDragon/pseuds/JBMcDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint is blinded and injured in the line of duty and can't stay by himself, he figures he's in for a long hospital visit. Luckily -- maybe -- Stark has a harebrained idea: to get the Avengers to live in the Avengers Tower.</p><p>With an apartment already there, and staff on hand to help, Clint is convinced. Of course, if things don't improve for him, he might not be an Avenger for long. There's no such thing as a blind sharpshooter. What's worse is that he's starting to <i>like</i> them all, as Tony convinces them to stay. Life in the Avengers Tower isn't easy for a sighted person: add a blind agent of SHIELD, emotional trauma, Loki's scepter, bad guys, and everyday mistakes, and Clint isn't sure if this is a comedy of errors or a Greek tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notes, omg the NOTES!

**Title:** F.U.B.A.R.  
 **Author:** JBMcDragon  
 **Characters/Pairing:** All characters Team!fic, Clintcentric. Clint/Thor friends-with-benefits. (Yeah, I don't know how the heck that happened, either.)  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Word Count:** 53,700 total, with the "days" averaging 4500.   
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor am I making money off of, anything Avengers, Avengers related, or fic.  
 **Warnings:** There is a chapter which has an optional PG-13 rating as well as an optional NC-17 rating. Read the notes, make your choice. Other than that, warnings for movie-level violence and angst. Also, not responsible for any liquids spit across your computer when you hit funny bits.  
 **Status:** Complete, will be posted a chunk every day or two until it's all up.

**Summary:**  
When Clint is blinded and injured in the line of duty and can't stay by himself, he figures he's in for a long hospital visit. Luckily -- maybe -- Stark has a harebrained idea: to get the Avengers to live in the Avengers Tower.

With an apartment already there, and staff on hand to help, Clint is convinced. Of course, if things don't improve for him, he might not be an Avenger for long. There's no such thing as a blind sharpshooter. What's worse is that he's starting to _like_ them all, as Tony convinces them to stay. Life in the Avengers Tower isn't easy for a sighted person: add a blind agent of SHIELD, emotional trauma, Loki's scepter, bad guys, and everyday mistakes, and Clint isn't sure if this is a comedy of errors or a Greek tragedy.

 

_Author's Notes:_  
This story is ridiculously long, and was a pain to write. Therefore, I ended up breaking it into three parts:  
Part One: Wherein everything goes wrong. This is actiony.  
Part Two: Essentially a lot of short stories that build into one big story.  
Part Three: Things are solved. This is also actiony.  
The formatting is a little unusual, so just go with the flow. I think you'll like it. God knows I spent enough time giggling, spamming people, and blathering to my friends and beau about it... ;)

Also, the extremely awesome sciencey stuff? That's thanks to [](http://daroos.livejournal.com/profile)[**daroos**](http://daroos.livejournal.com/), (aka Roos) who is an actual scientist and did research for me. Because she is awesome. SCIENCE!

The series as a whole is rated PG-13, and contains friends-with-benefits type gay sex. (That chapter does have a fade to black version to keep the PG-13 rating, but there's also an NC-17 version. You can choose which to read.) Mostly, it's Clintcentric team!fic. Woot woot!

Finally, I heard through the grapevine that some Hawkeye comic somewhere was doing something similar. It's only because they heard I was doing it and rushed to get it out first so they didn't look like copycats. This one is better. That's what Roos told me when I bemoaned the fact, and I BELIEVE HER.

Also note possible triggers for mentions of abuse in the sex chapter/Day 13. Nothing graphic.  



	2. Part One

"I still don't understand the bow."

Clint didn't bother glancing at Jones, but instead kept an eye out the back of the truck. Scan complete, he gave one quick look at the crate strapped down, checking that the buckles were still buckled. Inside lay the scepter Loki had used, the last bit of alien technology that hadn't been rounded up and disposed of. A few more days, and it'd be locked securely away and out of Clint's hair. He'd be glad when that was the case. It made his skin crawl to be this close to it. He turned his attention back out the window.

The Pittsburgh countryside rolled past. They'd traveled roughly four hours since leaving New York, and had another twenty-odd to go before they reached the warehouse in South Dakota. At least they were _moving_ , now, out of city traffic. Hills spilled ahead and behind them, dressed with green trees and grass. Fields came out of nowhere, towns surging up and dropping back, the road dotted more often with little houses than with cities. Small yards had swings and cars and gravel drives, then gave way once more to the acres and acres of national forest that surrounded the area.

"I mean," Jones continued, "It can't be half as accurate--"

Clint snorted.

Jones continued undeterred. "--Or half as powerful."

Clint answered mildly, trying not to get invested in irritation. "Not as powerful at extremely long range, but there are some definite advantages."

"Like what?"

Trucks rumbled ahead and behind them in the convoy. Clint listened for a moment, squinting at the day from behind his sunglasses. He'd thought--

But no. Maybe not.

He glanced at Jones, then away. "Silence, for one. No muzzle flash, for another. It's more--"

The world shot skyward. Clint grabbed hold of a strap, slamming shoulder-first into the side of the truck as it flipped through the air. Noise overwhelmed him. He focused on hanging on. Jones crashed into the roof, now the lowest point. Clint's ears gave up: the world went quiet, muffled by the hammer of his heartbeat. Everything ground to a halt, the truck upside-down. For an instant, stillness reigned. Clint shoved into motion, pulling his gun, checking the crate, feeling for Jones' pulse. Jones was out, but alive. Broken arm, but otherwise safe.

Clint stayed low, hurrying toward the back of the truck, dropping down to his belly and scooting forward to see out. His ears were still filled with cotton, but the world outside exploded into motion.

The convoy was frozen, trucks overturned, holes blasted in the road. From the forest on either side, snipers took potshots at anyone brave enough to become a target.

A bullet whizzed by, so close Clint could feel the air of its passing. He ducked for cover, rolled back out, aimed and shot. He did it again, trying to keep the area behind the truck clear. That was his job; if he could get some of the snipers at the same time, that was a bonus.

His hearing returned with the swell of adrenaline. Gunshots cracked through the air. Someone moaned. From the cab, radio static broke into words. The driver answered.

A whup-whup-whup beat through the air. Clint leaned out, twisting to look up, hoping and dreading all at the same time. The helicopter wasn't SHIELD's. It hovered over the truck, disappearing from view again. Clint shot another sniper and prepared to roll out of the truck, to see if he couldn't bring down the helicopter.

Because man against helicopter _always_ went well for the man, he couldn't help noting.

He'd just gotten to his feet when something crunched into the bottom of the truck. The whole thing moved, swaying suddenly. The driver bailed.

Clint caught his balance, bracing on the frame as the truck _lifted_.

"Out you go, too," Clint muttered, grabbing Jones by his vest and hauling him out the back. It was a ten foot drop by the time he got the unconscious agent there; Clint dropped him.

The truck swayed underfoot. Above, engines groaned at the weight. That didn't change the fact that the 'copter kept pulling the truck upward. The ground arced away. For an instant, Clint's stomach lurched. Then his mind kicked back into high gear: if they were stealing the truck, it was for Loki's scepter. With any luck they didn't know he was still in there.

"Easy job, huh, Fury?" Clint grunted, holstering his gun and jumping up to catch the cloth straps that held the crate in place. Pulling himself up off the truck roof, he tried to unbuckle them. The crate hung against them, making pulling the buckles loose almost impossible. He strained against the first one, finally bracing his feet against the bottom-now-top of the truck and hauling. He felt like a cartoon, and it still didn't work.

Clint unsheathed his Bowie knife and sawed through the cloth straps as fast as he could. There was no way to know how long before the enemy made their next move, and he didn't want to be there when that happened.

The first strap frayed. He cut faster. It broke with a snap, and he shifted to the second one. This one went quickly, now that he had the angle down. He didn't have to cut through the third; the crate slipped out and landed with a deafening bang. Clint swung down to land on top of it, re-sheathing his knife and unholstering his gun.

He didn't look out the back of the truck, at the sky opening up or the ground swinging away. He shot at the crate, putting two bullets in it, splintering the wood. Holstering again, he gripped the broken edges and _pulled_. Wood bit into his fingers, scraping against calluses. His muscles burned with the strain. But slowly, it gave. One board came up, and then a second.

The hairs on his neck and arms lifted. Clint froze. A noise crackled through the truck, blue lightning arcing across the metal frame. He dropped, flattening himself on the wooden crate, cursing.

Hell, if he wanted to make sure anyone inside was dead, he'd probably electrocute it, too.

Blue lightning whipped around the truck for long moments, while Clint covered his head with his hands -- as if that would help -- and waited for it to be over. Wind snatched at his hair and stole the breath from his mouth.

Finally, the electricity died down. Cautiously, Clint looked up again, expecting--

Hell, he didn't know what he was expecting.

Nothing happened.

The planks he'd pulled up had exposed the scepter, cradled in a nest of straw. He yanked the scepter out unceremoniously. Better it end up in the forest than with whoever had arranged the ambush. He scooted toward the end of the crate, flat on his stomach to keep it from tipping out of the truck, and peered over the ground.

Hundreds of feet below, forest whizzed by. Perfect. He tossed the scepter, shoving the long boards from the crate with it. They fell together, bits of litter and nothing more. Then he twisted to look up. That was where he needed to go.

From inside the truck, he couldn't see anything. He knew they had a claw or a hook or something sunk into the truck, and clearly it was attached to the helicopter. The easiest route would be to climb, but given the electric current...

"It'll be an easy job, Clint," he muttered, eying angles and unhooking his bow from its holster along his back. He snapped it open with a jerk of his arm, then reached for his quiver -- safely tied to the side of the truck -- and pulled that over his head and shoulder. "Just a quickie, Clint." A code tapped into the bow's handle snapped the grappling end onto a shaft, and he reached for it. "Call it a training exercise, Clint." He took a breath, crouched on the crate, and started walking toward the opening. "Piece of cake, Clint." The crate began to tip. The truck swayed. The ground whirled around below him, and for an instant he was dizzy. His heart thundered in his throat as the crate slid, grinding against the roof/bottom. The world opened out around him and under the crate. For a breath-stopping moment everything seemed to freeze. Then the crate plummeted. He jumped and twisted, aiming upward where the helicopter had to be, as he dropped from the truck. Everything soared on without him. Then the bow string rolled off his fingers, and the arrow whirred out.

It latched around one of the landing struts. He grabbed the rope with one hand as it flew past, hooking his bow to its holster with his other. The crate tumbled away, smashing into the trees far below.

Clint hauled himself up the rope, hand over hand. He didn't have long before someone saw him; as soon as he was high enough he wrapped the tail end of the rope around his leg, looping it over his foot to push up faster against his own body.

It was a pattern he didn't have to think about. Reach up, grab, bring his knees up, clamp on the rope, straighten. Reach, grab, bend, clamp, straighten. Reach--

The rope twisted dizzily in the air. One moment the ground was to his right, the next he was facing the sky. The wind buffeted him, flattening his clothes to his body. It hooked on his quiver and yanked at him. He ignored it, focused on the rope, on the helicopter, on the only two things that mattered as the ground continued to fall away.

He was nearly under the helicopter before any of them realized it. Sloppy. That was good. He counted seven men within, and he needed all the sloppiness he could get.

They shouted, panicked. He twisted the rope around his chest and one thigh to free his hands, grabbed his gun, and aimed downward. " _This_ is when you might as well use a bullet." Then he shot. Twice.

Both times he hit the cable exactly where it met the claw, holding the truck. The whole thing groaned. Then wires snapped, and a moment later the truck itself was plummeting downward.

If anyone was watching, hopefully that'd throw them off the scepter.

Someone above finally got their act together. Bullets began to fly. Clint kept himself tucked as close to the helicopter as he could, mostly hidden under the tail as they soared. The drag was almost, but not quite enough, to pull him into the tail rotor.

The helicopter angled downward sharply, the tops of the trees whizzing by. It twisted, turned, and he could only suppose they were trying to knock him loose, get a shot. They were still unloading their guns into the air, missing him entirely. Then bullets started slamming _into_ the rotor, slicing through the tail as well.

"Stop shooting!" he bellowed, knowing they couldn't hear him, horrified that they were too stupid to keep their own machine in the air. Any minute now they'd hit something crucial and--

The engine kicked up a notch. The helicopter started to dive.

Clint yanked the rope off, battering against the underside of the 'copter as it began to roll. The tail rotor was out; he suspected the control wires had been hit. Two people fell past him, and then he couldn't tell who was falling where. He let go.

No parachutes; nothing to hold onto. Trees were never as soft as they looked.

He hit. Branches clawed at him. He arrowed down to fall feet-first, arms out slightly to fend off anything large. He bounced off a tree, twisted in the air, felt something crack against the back of his skull and had an instant to think, _Tuck and roll--_

**

The pain had been there a long while. It tried to push him back under, even succeeded a time or two.

Thoughts drifted up.

There were seven people.

Two fell.

Five left.

Five left.

Five opponents left.

He levered his eyes open. Light stabbed through his skull. He closed them again. Flashes of color teased the edges of his lids, muzzle flares in the dark. He opened his eyes again.

The world hammered at him, pain flooding as if that had been the cue. From somewhere in his subconscious, his mind spat, _Five of them are still alive._

He listened. Birds tweeted. Leaves rustled; bursts of movement. Small forest scavengers. They'd be hiding if any people were moving around. He relaxed and let knowledge come easing back.

The helicopter. The fall. Pain, now, arcing throughout his entire body. Systematically, he began to check his toes, his fingers (pinky was broken or dislocated), his legs (something wrong with his ankle), his arms. Breathing was all right; no more painful than he'd expect from bruises and lacerations. He could move his legs, so his spine was intact.

Gingerly, he started to move his head.

Nausea rushed through. His mouth flooded with saliva and, far less carefully than he'd meant to, Clint rolled to one side and puked.

He nearly blacked out again, and hung onto consciousness with his last shreds of willpower. He focused on breathing, slow and deep, while the world rocked around him and the flashes of light grew brighter. He choked and puked again, fingers digging into the forest loam as the ground tried to buck him off.

Breathe, breathe, God, breathe. Tears and snot joined the vomit, his body attempting to expel everything. He coughed, gasping for air.

When it started to clear again, he realized he was propped on one elbow, the other hand steadying him. Clint spat. Carefully, he reached up to feel at his skull. The back of his head was soaked. He pulled his hand away, down into his field of vision. Blood glistened on his fingers.

Fear lanced through him. He ignored it. "Well, fuck," he muttered, as if dismissing it aloud would make it better. Warily, hoping the world would stay put, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

He'd either lost no more than a few hours, or just over twenty-four. He worked up saliva and guessed at a few hours. His tongue wasn't thick, his stomach wasn't hollow. He was shaking, but hell, he'd fallen out of a helicopter.

They'd been traveling through Pennsylvania, with national forest on either side. There might still be enemies out there, armed and dangerous. Loki's scepter was missing because he'd _dropped it out of a helicopter_. He was in the middle of God-knew-where, without food or water, injured.

He'd been in worse situations. He took a steadying breath. He could only do one thing at a time, and there was definitely an order. He couldn't do much about his head. Head wounds bled a lot, and if there was anything more wrong... well, too bad.

He could splint his pinky, though, and check his ankle. Those were the first things. He began to untie his boot, hissing with pain. His ankle was already swollen and hot to the touch. He distracted himself.

Say the helicopter had been going a hundred miles an hour, lugging that truck. They'd been in the air maybe twenty minutes. That was thirty-five miles covered. On flat ground, uninjured, with food and water he could cover twenty miles in ten hours.

He didn't follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

He'd dropped the scepter out of the 'copter after less than ten minutes, he guessed. The crate a few minutes after that. So the scepter was roughly fifteen miles from the convoy -- and it was safe to assume they hadn't seen it fall -- and the crate was another six to ten beyond that. The crate should have had some kind of tracking beacon on it. He'd hope so.

Gritting his teeth, he did his best to detach himself from his body and began to palpate his ankle. Nothing broken, he thought. Sprained. Clint stripped off his armored vest -- probably the reason he didn't have broken ribs -- and both his over- and undershirts. The over shirt and vest he put back on; the undershirt he tore into strips to bind his ankle.

It would take SHIELD say, four hours to scramble a response team and get to the convoy. Another few hours to take care of the injured and go after the crate. The forest was too dense for dirt bikes or an air drop; they'd be on foot. So a day to get to the crate. Tomorrow evening. Another two to three days to scout far enough to find the scepter, if they found it at all and didn't just assume that whoever had taken the truck had succeeded.

He had to get to the scepter. Then he had to get to safety. And he had to do it before whoever had tried to grab everything put themselves together and tried again.

The scepter was probably twenty miles from where he stood now.

Moving carefully lest the world start moving again, Clint got to his feet. He caught his breath at the pain in his leg, at the dizziness in his head. Standing perfectly still seemed the best course of action.

Slowly, everything died down.

His bow was a hundred feet away, his quiver -- half the arrows scattered around -- twenty feet in the other direction. Night was going to fall in a few hours: he needed food, water, shelter. It was only fall, but fall in Pennsylvania was still chilly at night. It wasn't winter, though. He wasn't going to be out here for days, if everything went right.

He needed a staff, to walk. He needed to get his bearings. He could find food and water on the go.

Clint went.

**

He stopped, leaning against a tree. Pain made him sweat, which cooled him down too much. Sleep beckoned alluringly. Lights flashed at the corners of his eyes, but every time he looked they'd vanished. His vision was going gray, too, just at the edges. He tried not to think of it. He couldn't do anything about a bleed in his brain.

Jesus fuck, he couldn't do anything if he were dead, either.

He pushed it out of his mind.

Clint started walking again. The sun flirted with the blade of the horizon. He'd found a stream and drunk his fill. With nothing to carry water in, it was the best he could do.

The scepter. Then the convoy. Someone would pick him up.

He leaned on his make-shift crutch and focused on walking.

**

One foot in front of the other.

Night had fallen. He didn't dare stop. Orienting by moonlight wasn't hard, when the moon was full. It was harder to ignore the throb in his ankle, spreading up his leg. Putting weight on it was agonizing. He used the crutch as much as he could.

Five people left. Twenty miles to travel.

He stopped and drank more water.

**

The flashes of light had stopped. The vision in his left eye was getting worse.

The world narrowed. One foot in front of the other. He kept blinking, hoping it would clear his vision. It didn't.

He held onto the thought that he needed to get to the scepter. That was the next goal.

**

It was freezing.

Five men still alive. Twenty miles to the scepter. Ten miles every twelve hours, if he was lucky. One foot in front of the other. One more breath.

He vomited again and had to stop while the world twitched and shuddered. He didn't think about a brain bleed.

He closed one eye and saw the world as if behind a veil.

The stream wound around, and he drank more water.

**

Maybe, he thought, trying not to think at all, maybe his vision was only bad because it was dark out. He closed one eye, then opened it and closed the other.

Another step. Another breath. Another step.

He grit his teeth together to keep his teeth from chattering.

The moon was going down.

**

Seven men in the helicopter. Five of them left. He kept turning the numbers over in his head.

Two falling.

Seven left.

No, five left. Seven to start with.

The back of his head itched with the blood hardening in his hair. He stopped walking, just for a moment, leaning against a tree. The sun rose over the mountains. It should have been pink and gold, light blue along the horizon. Instead, shadows lurked, streaking across his vision. He closed one eye. It was like looking through smoke, heavily gray at the edges. He closed the other. Darkness crowded him, with only a pinpoint of light visible when he focused.

Sick panic crawled up his throat. He shoved it back down. He couldn't do anything about his eyes right now. He couldn't do anything about a brain bleed. He could get to the scepter.

He pushed into motion again. The pain in his ankle was a constant, almost a steadying force. Something to not think about, something to drive him onward. The concussion would wait.

**

He staggered, tripping over a branch. He hadn't seen it. Clint went down hard on his knees, the quiver of arrows sliding off his shoulder. Bile nearly choked him. He swallowed, again, taking deep breaths. The world spun. His vision darkened further.

He hadn't seen the branch.

It didn't matter. He couldn't think about it. He couldn't do a damned thing about it.

The sun had gone above the apex of the world and was sliding down the other side. He trembled, blood sugar low, pain levels high. He hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. Maybe more. At least it wasn't so _cold_ out, now.

He wondered if he was in shock.

It took some time to find his crutch again. He squinted until a headache raged, matching the concussion-headache he carried everywhere. His vision was down to a pinpoint of light in one eye, a gray world in the other.

There was his crutch -- in the shadows of his vision, half-buried in leaves. He picked it up, heard arrows fall from his quiver, couldn't see where they landed, and left them behind. Clint pushed onward.

The scepter would be this way.

**

Numbers swirled. Thirty-five miles total. Probably fifteen miles before he'd dropped the scepter from the 'copter. Twenty miles to the scepter, in that case. If he was lucky he was making ten miles every twelve hours.  
  
If he was lucky, he'd find it soon. Assuming it would be laying there, in his path. Assuming he could see it. He squinted, blinked, tried to see. If it wasn't in his path...  
  
He'd find it anyway.  
  
Voices drifted on the evening wind.  
  
He couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tone. Irritated. Annoyed.  
  
Clint stepped behind a tree, putting his crutch aside, setting arrow to bow, drawing it halfway.  
  
They came closer.  
  
"--what were you  _thinking_ , shooting--"  
  
"Hey, at least we found the artifact!"  
  
The artifact? The scepter. Relief swept through him. Who was he to argue if his opponents wanted to bring it right to him? His mind cleared, pain hammered into the background, concentration going diamond-bright. He pulled the bow, stepping only far enough from behind the tree to aim. He almost couldn't focus. His eyes refused to work. Everything was dark, as if a thin curtain had been pulled over the world. But -- there. That spot. He shot.  
  
The man in the back went down with a scream. He shouldn't have screamed. He should have dropped silently, spine severed. Instead, he clutched at his thigh while arterial blood soaked the ground beneath him.  
  
Clint ducked back behind the tree, holding their image in his mind, trying not to think about the fact that he'd  _missed_. Four men, not five. (The man was still screaming. Others were shouting, too.) One behind, down. One in the middle holding the scepter, which was wrapped in a blanket. Two in front. (Three seconds to bleed out from a wound like that, but it wasn't where Clint had aimed.)  
  
"Hey -- Sam!" Alarm in that tone. "Shit!"  
  
Clint stepped out again. This time, his heart in his throat, he closed his bad eye. Aiming with one wasn't as good, but he'd  _missed_. He drew and shot.  
  
Gunfire cracked out. Dirt flew up in spurts around his tree. He twisted back to cover, resisting the urge to duck and shield his head. It wouldn't help. Better to stay upright, so he could fight.  
  
This time, the man he'd shot didn't scream.  
  
Clint counted shots until they stopped, and gave a humorless twist of his mouth. Three shots left between two men, if he was right.  
  
"Don't even think about moving," one of them called out.  
  
Silence echoed through the forest. The animals had vanished. Clint's heart beat against his chest, throbbed along his pinky, his ankle, and the back of his head. It almost drowned out their footsteps; they were trying to surround his tree, one on each side.  
  
He could take them. Normally, he could have twisted one way, shot, twisted the other way and shot again before the first body hit the ground. But he'd _missed_. The world was gray. He closed his bad eye again.  
  
The footsteps edged near. Clint braced himself, drew, and stepped around the tree.  
  
The man jerked the gun toward Clint with a wordless yell while behind him, footsteps broke into a run. They were close; fifteen feet away. Impossible to miss. He ignored the footsteps, ignored the gun, aimed, and let fly.  
  
A gunshot cracked out. It went wide.  
  
Seven in the 'copter. Two fell. One shot through the thigh. One in the chest. One in the face.  
  
Someone slid to a stop behind him and the muzzle of a gun rested against the back of his neck, cold on his skin. A voice snarled. "You're gonna help me fix them. And then you're gonna--"  
  
He twisted, bringing his bow up like a bludgeon just as the gun clicked -- empty. He caught the thug under the jaw and the man staggered back.  
  
Not hard enough to do much more than that, though. He whipped his bow around again with a silent apology to the crafter, cracking it across the thug's face. The thug staggered again. It gave Clint enough time to yank out his knife, to step forward--  
  
The thug lunged, fast for his size, catching Clint just under the ribs. They both smashed backward. Clint ignored the fall, bringing his knife up and around and down, between the vertebra at the nape of the thug's neck. It severed the spinal column with a little hitch as they hit the ground.  
  
Lights splashed across the world, pain robbing him of breath. The abyss called, and he nearly swirled down into it. He clung to consciousness, gasping for breath.  
  
Vision -- what limited vision he had -- came back slowly. Darkness in one eye, a gray tunnel in the other. He shoved the thug off him, staggered to the scepter -- wrapped in cloth -- and practically fell on it.  
  
One problem solved.  
  
Clint took a moment to breathe, to let relief shiver through him. All he had to do was get to help, and by now they'd have found the convoy. If he could get to the road and just start walking, travel would be easy enough. A hospital wouldn't be far behind. His eyesight--  
  
God, he couldn't think about it.  
  
The road was that way. He picked up the scepter, propping it over one shoulder, and began to limp downhill.  
  
His vision narrowed. He hesitated, tipping his head to peer out of the one good side.  
  
It darkened. He could see the sky against a blur he knew must be trees. He could see the vague smear of brown that must be earth.  
  
And then all light vanished.  
  
He froze.  
  
He staggered, aware suddenly he was falling, unable to figure out up from down in the utter dark. Clint hit one knee, braced himself with the scepter, found the ground with his other hand. He couldn't see. He couldn't see his hands on the ground, though he knew they must be right there in front of his face. When he looked up he couldn't see the sky. He couldn't see  _anything_.  
  
His breath came faster.  
  
No good. This was no good. He didn't have the luxury of panic.  
  
He could try stumbling toward the road, but it seemed like a stupid idea. How long before -- if -- they branched out from the crate far enough to find the scepter? How far had his opponents traveled with it?  
  
He gathered it closer -- he'd be damned if he was going to lose it now -- and shuffled through the loam until he felt a tree. Then he sat, back to the tree, using it to orient himself in the world. This was a tree; there was the ground. The sky was up.  
  
He strained to make out anything.  _Anything_.  
  
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours as he sat there, trying to formulate a fucking plan in the God-damned dark. They didn't  _train_ agents for blindness. You went blind, you died. How long before the brain bleed--  
  
This wasn't doing him any good. His breath rattled. Animals started to move around again. Something brushed his cheek, and he lunged away, grabbing for his sheathed knife and drawing it--  
  
Nothing happened. His breathing echoed. Nausea grew again. God, that was panic. That had to be panic, and he'd be fine if he just stayed calm. He had to contact SHIELD, that was all. Find a way to get down to the road. If he -- if he -- if he found trees, and followed the moss pattern--  
  
Something rang.  
  
Clint stopped, listening.  
  
It rang again.  
  
"You're kidding me," he croaked, just to hear someone talk. "One of you yahoos brought a  _cell phone?_ " But he scrambled toward the noise on his hands and knees, using the hand with the broken pinky to carry the scepter, his good hand feeling out the way. Hope flared.  
  
He hit a body, and started patting it down. The ringing stopped, but it had been here, damn it. It had been  _right_  here. He felt a face, hair, and moved down until there was cloth again. A chest, shirt, belt, pockets. Pockets! He rolled the body, felt for back pockets, and nearly shouted with relief when a hard, rectangular lump was in one. He fumbled it out, nearly dropping it.  
  
The calluses on his fingers didn't lend themselves to sensitivity, but it was definitely a touch-screen. No keyboard. No number pad.  
  
Clint made himself comfortable, the scepter across his knees, and reviewed everything he knew about phones. Most of them locked. A side-swipe, that was it. He swiped his finger across, hoped to God it was the right end and the right way, and then--  
  
Then--  
  
There was usually a phone icon at the bottom. He tapped the bottom corner and hoped it worked. He hesitated, then decided 911 would be the easiest number to get right. Bottom right, top left, top left, bottom middle to place the call.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
Clint closed his eyes, not that it did anything. One minute for the phone to re-set, to back out of whatever programs he might have hit, assuming he'd unlocked it in the first place. Then he'd try again.  
  
**  
  
It was cold. Clint had crawled until he found a tree, then huddled between two roots, the scepter at hand, and tried to conserve body heat. He hadn't lost track of the combinations he'd tried, the tiny adjustments he'd made each time he'd attempted to dial. He was better than that. But he'd lost count of how  _many_  he'd tried.  
  
He kept his eyes closed. It was easier to keep them closed and pretend the darkness was by choice. He focused on the combinations and tried not to think about being blind in the forest. About the likelihood he'd survive.  
  
Bottom right, top left, top left, bottom middle.  
  
He held his breath. And a moment later, it started to ring.  
  
"Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"  
  
Clint nearly laughed, heady with relief. "This is Special Agent Clint Barton of SHIELD. I need you to put me through to your dispatch. I have a man down--" no need to say he was the man down, "--and I need help."  
  
**  
  
By Clint's reckoning, it took the better part of an hour to get through to someone who not only believed him, but could help.  
  
Sitwell's calm voice was like a balm when he finally answered. "Barton. Care to explain?"  
  
Clint folded his legs up, scepter across his lap, and leaned his forehead on his knees. "I have Loki's scepter. I brought down the helicopter, and I suspect all the terrorists--" it was as good a term as any, "--are dead. I only saw seven; two fell, I killed another four, and I imagine someone died in the crash." He hoped, or he was a sitting duck. "I can't be more than twenty miles from the convoy."  
  
Sitwell took it in, responding swiftly. "We have troops in the area. They'll come for you. Can you give me a location? Some landmark?"  
  
Clint almost laughed, but this time there was no relief in it. No humor, either. He tightened his uninjured hand into a fist. "No."  
  
Sitwell was silent for a moment. "There's a lot of forest to cover, Barton. We can triangulate this number, but with the hills around--"  
  
"Triangulate the number." Clint's voice came out hoarse.  
  
Sitwell's was quieter. "How badly are you hurt?"  
  
Not, "Are you hurt?" but "How badly?" How well SHIELD knew its agents. Clint swallowed against a dry mouth -- he couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to drink and just figured he was lucky not to be adding contaminated water to his list of problems.  
  
None of which answered Sitwell's question. "Mostly minor injuries," he murmured at last, then cleared his throat and strengthened his voice. Saying it didn't make it any more real than it already was. It didn't change anything. He tried to add the last as if it mattered only as much as his sprained ankle. "And a concussion. I can't see."  
  
There was a beat, and then Sitwell spoke. "All right. Hang tight. I'm going to scramble a medivac. The troops will find you and get you to an area clear enough to airlift you out. Shout out when you hear them. I'm going to write down this number, but you need to hang up -- we don't want the battery dying. You understand me, Agent?"  
  
Clint nodded, said, "Yeah," automatically. "But really, a medivac? Helicopters aren't my friends right now."  
  
Sitwell didn't chuckle. Clint hadn't expected him to, though Coulson would have just to humor Clint. "Couple of hours, Barton. I'll have someone call and check on you every ten minutes. Stay there and stay conscious, agent."  
  
Clint said, "Do my best." Then the line went dead.  
  
**  
  
Footsteps in the corridor. Voices outside the door. Clint's palms were sweaty, the hospital gown sticking to his back. The door opened.  
  
A voice he recognized spoke, and the tension leaked out of his shoulders. Nick Fury. "The doctors say the surgery went well and it's good news," Fury said, sounding just a hair cautious.  
  
Laying on his stomach with his head braced on a special headrest -- which was to say it had a hole for his face -- Clint felt oddly vulnerable.  
  
No, wait. Not oddly at all.  
  
"Is that what they say?" he asked, tone dry. The flesh between his shoulder blades crawled. He couldn't tell where Fury was, now. "Because they told me my retinas were detached and I might never see again."  
  
"Detached retinas notwithstanding," Fury said mildly, "you aren't bleeding into your brain and dead. I call that a win."  
  
Clint didn't say anything.  
  
Fury took a breath. He'd come closer. Clint suppressed the flinch at noise where he hadn't expected it.  
"I took the liberty of arranging an... ah, a guard. I don't figure anyone's likely to come after you here, but it seemed wise. The doctors want you still, rather than trying to check out who's coming in the door. I was going to assign a paper pusher, but I had a request..."  
  
Natasha spoke up, her voice bland and matter-of-fact. He knew that tone; it hid a dry sense of humor. "You'll just do anything to get attention, won't you." Not a question.  
  
His good hand -- the other was in a cast -- gripped the sides of the pillow. "Nat."  
  
Fury spoke, "I'll leave you to it, then," and left. The door clicked shut behind him.  
  
Fingers trailed up his leg; telling him where she was, he thought, rather than anything sexual. "I think I like it better when you're shot," she said contemplatively.  
  
Clint laughed. It broke halfway through, but he scrambled to regain it. "Me, too."  
  
**  
  
She was halfway through the first of the Bourne books out loud -- mocking it in that idle, lackadaisical way that she had -- when the door opened and, for the first time, someone other than a nurse walked in.  
  
"What is this?" It was a brash voice, words spoken in a rapid-fire that made it seem like speaking went too slow for his mind.  
  
Clint started to push upward, froze with Nat's hand resting lightly on his back, and waited for more information.  
  
"You can't--" the nurse, flustered.  
  
"Relax," the rapid-fire voice said. "He's a doctor."  
  
"Ah, yeah..." Deeper, but not much. Hesitant.  
  
The first voice again: "The service in here is  _terrible_. Get me a martini, would you? Something with a straw for my friend there."  
  
It had all taken seconds, and it was too much. Clint shoved upward, his heart pounding. Then Natasha's hand pressed between his shoulder blades, holding him gently in place as she spoke in an undertone. "Tony Stark and Dr. Banner." He could practically feel the readiness in her.  
  
Despite that, it wasn't easy to relax again, to lay on his damned stomach with his eyes and head wrapped up in gauze, wearing hospital clothes, an immobilizing boot, and a sheet, an IV threading into the back of his hand. His breath came faster than it should have, but he couldn't see where they were or what they were doing, and hell, the last time he'd seen them  _aliens_  were attacking and Banner was giant and green.  
  
Tony spoke, loud. "Hey! There he is. We heard there'd been a problem with Loki's scepter and you were here. Here, Big Green, translate this into English, would you?"  
  
They kept  _moving_. Clint twitched, trying to keep them in range. Natasha's hand stayed on his shoulders, holding him there. "How the hell did you hear that?" Clint demanded.  
  
"Thor."  
  
Thor. The god? "How did Thor--"  
  
"Tony, I'm not sure I should be--" Bruce said, sounding a little exasperated.  
  
"Oh, here, give it to me. Blah blah blah, concussion, broken finger, sprained ankle -- nice boot, by the way -- blah blah blah, detached retinas, ah, this is it -- surgery went well, prognosis for recover--"  
  
Natasha's hand was gone suddenly. Something crashed, and silence weighed down the room. Clint shoved upward, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, trying to keep his head bent -- might as well, wasn't like he could see them anyway. He knocked a chair -- Nat's? -- out of the way, skipped off his injured ankle, and did his best to face where everyone was.  
  
"Wow," Tony said after a minute. "Those are the super-secret-agent reflexes we hear about, huh?"  
  
Clint couldn't tell who Tony was talking about. He was shaking, flooded with impotent adrenaline.  
  
Natasha spoke, calm as ever. "Clint, get back in bed. Bruce, Tony, it's nice of you to visit, but what are you doing here?"  
  
Clint didn't move. Then Nat's hand landed on his shoulder, more of a demand than encouragement. He wasn't about to clamber awkwardly back into bed with Tony and Bruce standing there.  
  
"We're Avengers," Tony said, as if that explained everything. Something dragged along the ground and went silent. Tony kept talking. "Aren't retinas kind of important for a sharp shooter? I'm not so sure it's a good idea to go around--"  
  
Bruce spoke, a single, quiet word. "Tony."  
  
Tony stopped.  
  
For a moment the only sound in the room was Clint, as he swallowed. Natasha's hand tightened on his shoulder; support, rather than demand. After a moment, Tony spoke, subdued. "So that's what they call surgery going well, huh? Maybe you  _should_  get back in bed."  
  
They had to have been reading his medical file. He knew what successful meant in this case: it meant they'd done what they could, and he might get some vision back.  
  
Some.  
  
He breath came fast and short, and he purposefully deepened it again. He pushed the knowledge to the back of his mind and refused to look at it.  
  
Tony spoke. It was, Clint was beginning to believe, impossible to shut him up. "Well, I was right when I said the service here was awful. Look, Barton -- can I call you Clint? -- Clint, Bruce and I are on a mission of mercy. You can't stay here, you'll go crazy before you heal up, and I understand your apartment is in another city. But the Avengers Tower is all set and ready for people to occupy it, if I can just get someone other than Steve and Bruce here to occupy it, so grab your stuff and we'll head off. I have nurses and everything."  
  
Clint wasn't at all sure that he was hearing this right. "Have you lost your mind?" he asked finally.  
  
"Ah, no. You're the one with the concussion. C'mon, I can employ the best doctors and you'll be around friends. Well. Acquaintances, anyway. What else are you going to do? Stay here?"  
  
*****


	3. Part Two: Day One & Two

Day One  
Morning

Natasha Romanoff, master spy and assassin, stood in the center isle of WalMart waiting for a prescription to be filled and tried to decide what a temporarily blind man might find entertaining.

Not movies, certainly. He couldn't read without sight. Maybe audiobooks.

She set off toward electronics with purpose, heels clicking sharply on the tile floor. How she ended up acting as his nursemaid, she didn't know. (That she'd requested time off to help Clint didn't count.) Fury owed her hazard pay. SHIELD didn't even offer hazard pay (that went with the job), but for this, they'd better make an exception.

She plucked audiobooks off the meager selection without really looking at them; one from each of the four small shelves. Then she turned, pondering what else he might need. His own apartment was in Atlanta, too far to drive down and pick up a few items. Which meant if she didn't want him reeking, he'd need clothes and toiletries.

She wandered, trying to drum up what sorts of toiletries men used. Soap. Razor. Safety razor, she amended, imagining a blind Clint cutting his own throat, and yanked the cheapest one off the rack. Cologne, mouthwash, he'd have to do without those. Toothbrush and toothpaste, yes. He liked spicy food, and that stuff made his breath stink if he didn't brush. Hair brush, gel, every other hair goo in the world -- she ignored those. He was an invalid. He could damn well look it for a few days.

Clothes. She re-traced her steps to the underwear isle, grabbed three packages in different sizes, did the same with socks and jeans, then eyed the packaged t-shirts.

"Romanoff, to the pharmacy please, your order is ready. Romanoff, to the pharmacy."

Ah. That was nice. They _did_ page upon request. She frowned slightly, though, wondering how long he'd be blind for. She didn't like him blind. She didn't like him injured, either, but somehow this was worse. The fact that she was _shopping_ for him made her itch under her skin.

A child wandered by, complaining loudly to its mother. It wore a shirt that read, "I'm an AVENGER." Natasha smiled slightly. Well. Those would be accurate, at least. She headed deeper into the t-shirt section.

**  
Later Morning

Clint stepped out of the taxi and followed the tug of Nat's hand at his elbow, trying to keep his head down like the doctors had told him to. The air bubble pressing his retina into the correct place had to stay put until it absorbed, which meant his face had to stay downward.

Doors whooshed open, and a blast of cold air hit him. Noise did, too, echoing subtly through what had to be a large room. Lobby. Thing for the Avengers Tower.

There were too many people to track: footsteps and voices and rattling papers, someone laughing, someone cursing, an elevator dinging, phones ringing and more people answering. It was overload. He paused there, drawing Nat to a stop with him.

"The lobby is a hundred by a hundred meters," she said in an undertone. "Oh, and there's--"

"You made it!"

A hand slapped against the back of his shoulder, and he reacted without thinking. Clint grabbed the arm that had struck him, whipping around and down, throwing his assailant to the floor. The man lost his air in a burst, and Clint struck for the sound, finding the throat, dropping his knee to his assailant's chest, orienting himself the whole time by the angle of the man's arm.

The room went silent.

"--there's Stark," Nat said, still calm. "Tony, Clint doesn't like to be surprised. Better to announce yourself first."

Tony wheezed.

**  
Afternoon

The mechanical voice came through the walls. Steve was pretty sure he was _never_ going to get used to that, even if he'd agreed to move into the Tower. It wasn't like he'd been attached to his little apartment in Harlem.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Rogers, but I believe your assistance is needed."

"Oh?" He picked up his wallet -- Fury had set him up with a passport. There was still some political waffling over what to do about a driver's license, which seemed to be the preferred form of ID. "Can it wait, Jarvis? I'm running late."

"I do not believe so. In fact, I would suggest some urgency."

Steve stopped, hand halfway to his leather jacket. "What's wrong?"

"Agent Barton is in some distress. Given his heart and respiratory rates, as well as the medical files I have on his current situation, I believe he might be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Also, he seems to be lost."

Barton, Barton... "They guy with the bow and arrows?"

"Indeed, Captain."

Now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember Stark saying something about getting all the Avengers here. Avengers. What a ridiculous name.

Steve looked longingly at his jacket, draped across his kitchen chair. He'd rather be at the soup kitchen than here. At least there, he was doing some good. "Jarvis, is there anyone else who can go help him?"

"Indeed, I could call Mr. Stark. Your files, however, indicate that your prior army experience and the high marks you received for your work with your soldiers would better equip you to help Agent Barton, who is also a military man of sorts."

Steve had gotten pretty good at reading between Jarvis's words. This seemed like a rebuke. "He's not one of my Commandos," Steve said quietly.

"Of course not, Captain. But he is a solider."

Steve stood there, at war with himself.

"Shall I ask Mr. Stark to look in on him, then?" Jarvis asked.

"No," Steve growled. He tossed his wallet back on the table and headed for the elevator. "Where is he?"

"Two floors below you, Captain. I shall open the locks."

When he stepped into Barton's apartment, he couldn't help giving a wry smile. It looked just as outrageous as his own had looked when he'd moved in. Tony had been appalled when Steve systematically threw everything out and started re-furnishing from scratch; giant leather couches and wall-sized TVs just weren't his thing. In fact, the place was bigger than any house he'd ever lived in, with a second, private living area of a more normal size in the back. He still could have fit his little apartment plus some in the back rooms.

"Hello?" he called into the silence. "Agent Barton?"

"In the private living area, Captain," Jarvis told him gently.

Steve started that way, down a corridor devoid of anything personal. "Agent Barton, this is Captain Rogers. I'm coming in." He opened the door at the end of the hall, stepping into a large but comfortable living room.

Leather couches and overstuffed chairs made a central sitting area, a stone fireplace off to one side. Barton was against the wall, his eyes wide and staring at nothing, chest rising and falling with short, quick breaths. A white bandage was looped around his head, and his ankle was wrapped and booted. One hand was splinted as well, his pinky sticking straight out. He looked like hell.

"Barton," Steve said warily. "Do you know where you are?"

Barton's head twitched toward him.

"You're in Avengers Tower," Steve continued. He knew that look; he'd seen it on his own men, late at night, woken from a dead sleep.

Barton took a breath and spoke. "There was someone in the room. I got lost, and there was someone--"

"I'm afraid that was me," Jarvis said apologetically.

Barton flinched.

"Right, that's the..." Steve forgot the term. "The house. Tony put a person in it."

"Artificial Intelligence," Jarvis corrected.

Steve shrugged it off. Barton was facing him now, at least, but his eyes still weren't focusing. "Are you all right?"

Barton shook his head slowly. "I got up to use the bathroom and someone was here, then I got turned around..."

Maybe the head injury was worse than it looked. "All right," Steve said warily. "Do you still need the bathroom?"

He wondered if Barton was usually so expressive. Barton's face twisted, frustration painted across it. "Yeah."

"There's one in the bedroom. To your left," he directed.

Barton hesitated. He wasn't facing the door, or Steve, or anything else useful. He'd tipped his head down and slightly to one side, and he still wasn't focusing.

"Is something wrong?" Steve asked finally.

Barton barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah, I can't see. Wait -- you thought I got lost in a bedroom while I could _see_?"

Steve gestured to the bandage on Barton's head. "You've got a head wound..."

Barton's mouth twisted downward. "I'm blind. Temporarily."

Ah. Steve stepped forward, then made it a point to take heavier steps so Barton could hear him. "I'm just going to take your arm and get you to the bathroom, all right?"

Barton nodded jerkily. But when Steve got there, Barton lifted his arm and Steve realized, again, that his foot and ankle were wrapped and braced. Steve ducked under Barton's arm and lifted, walking slowly so Barton could limp along. "So," he said conversationally, "how'd you get injured?"

"I fell off a helicopter."

Steve's eyebrows rose. "That would do it."

**  
Evening

Clint hesitated as the elevator doors whooshed open. Conversations fell silent, and he knew that the community floor -- each Avenger had their own floor, an apartment three times the size of his own in Georgia, but there was also a community floor, a gym floor, and various other floors -- was already occupied. His heart sank farther. It had been by threat of mutiny that Nat had convinced him to stop hiding in his apartment and join the natives for dinner. He wanted nothing less than to visit with people he barely knew, but braced himself anyway and faked good cheer, though whether they could tell with his head down he didn't know.

Before Nat could either drag him forward or tell him who was where, Tony spoke. "That's a bold clothing choice."

Frowning, Clint leaned toward Natasha. "What's he talking about?"

"Nothing," she murmured back. "Stark is standing with Dr. Banner, and Steve is to your right." She tugged him forward.

"No, really," Tony continued. "I appreciate it. Takes a brave man to wear his arc reactor on his sleeve like that."

Clint ran a hand down his T-shirt, feeling the dry rasp where some kind of image had been applied. What kind, he couldn't tell. "Nat picked out my clothes."

Bruce spoke, haltingly, a little embarrassed. "Tony's just giving you a hard time."

Clint stopped walking, forcing Nat to stop with him. He angled toward her without actually picking his head up. "What did you do?"

"I got you Avengers shirts," she said, sounding innocent and smug all at the same time.

Steve spoke next. "It says, 'I,' has a picture of a small arc reactor, then, 'Iron Man.'"

Clint mentally translated words and images. Then he smirked. "Cute." He spread his arms, aiming his body toward where Tony had last been. "Stark, there's something I haven't told you..."

"No one can resist me," Tony said, a lot closer, and then grabbed him and spun him around and down, kissing him.

Clint had the good sense _not_ to throw Tony to the ground (again), though it was a close thing. The kiss was more like being hit in the face with another face, but the room erupted in laughter. Tony spun him back up and let go. He was disoriented, unsure where things were as he took a step to catch his balance. He shoved the uncertainty down; they didn't need to see that.

"Not bad," Clint said, brain kicking in, "but I think you need to work on your dipping skills."

Bruce laughed even harder. "He got you, Tony. No, don't argue, he did."

Clint kept a smile plastered on his face, shifting one foot to find some sort of furniture, wall, something -- until Nat stepped in. All right. He was good.

**  
Late Evening

"So you stayed, huh?" Clint asked Bruce.

Bruce glanced at him over the mahogany dinner table and saw the top of his head. "Yeah," he said. "I probably should have made myself scarce again, but... I really missed my lab." He gave a wry smile. "And I'm pretty well insulated here. And you..." He hesitated over asking, wondering if he was treading boundaries that shouldn't be tread. He could _feel_ Natasha's attention on him, even if she was looking at Tony.

Bruce leaped. "What's the plan for your recovery?"

Clint's fork moved blindly around his plate, missing the food that had been pushed off to the left. "They injected an air bubble in my right eye to hold my retina in place, and I have to keep my head down until it absorbs. Hopefully, that'll only take a few days. Then they do the other eye. Then, in two to six weeks, my vision should start coming back."

It hadn't seemed that simple, when he'd skimmed Clint's medical chart. He didn't say so. "Ah. You have to... sleep like that, too?"

"Yeah," Clint said morosely. "There's a chair in my apartment for it." He set his fork to one side, leaning back but keeping his face down.

Bruce held his tongue, then finally leaned forward and said as quietly as he could, "Your dinner's to the left. I mean -- my left. Your right."

After a beat, Clint picked his fork back up and found the rest of his eggplant parmesan. "Thanks," he murmured awkwardly.

**  
Night

"--do the other side, and _that_ has to absorb. After that it'll be two to six weeks before--"

Steve cut in, frowning in confusion as he looked at the bar where Clint sat by himself, talking. "Agent Barton? ...Who are you talking to?" Jarvis, maybe?

Clint turned, almost a flinch, and his head came up for a moment before it dropped again. "Tony."

Steve's gaze flicked past Clint to the empty bar, then across the room to where Tony was just leaving the bathroom. "I think he played you," Steve said with a frown toward their landlord. "He left."

Clint's shoulders dropped. "Son of a bitch."

**  
Day Two  
Morning

Mondays. Mondays were always a pain. Bob looked up from his desk to see a woman in a nurse's uniform shambling toward him, a bloody rag held to her nose.

It was definitely Monday.

Bob set aside his paperwork and folded his hands on his desk, summoning up a lie of a smile that said her cares were his cares. "Can I help you?"

"I'm supposed to talk to Bob in HR. That's you?" she asked, eyes accusatory above the rag.

"That's me." He was already mentally pulling the files for workman's comp, calling up the lawyers he'd have to warn if Stark had done something inappropriate, wondering if she was a real nurse or a call girl.

Real. She was wearing slacks, not a mini skirt.

"I was hired to help Clint Barton, but when I woke him to take his pills he _attacked_ me. Broke my nose! I expect--"

"We will fully pay your hospital bills, of course, as well as therapy for any mental trauma. Please, just fill out this form, this form, and this form. We're so sorry about the inconvenience. Would you prefer to continue in your job, or shall we find a new contractor?" He hoped that was the right term.

She was looking at him as if everything he said were suspicious. He did his best to look innocuous. "Hire someone else," she growled, pulling the forms closer and lowering herself into the chair. "I don't need this kind of stress."

"Of course not," Bob soothed. "Let me call first aid." And Stark. Stark should probably know.

**  
Late Morning

A voice blared over the intercom, brash and insensitive. "Does someone want to explain to me why the nurse I hired just filed for workman's comp?"

Nat kept her gaze steady on Clint who -- though blind and armed only with a standing lamp -- was still dangerous. "Not really," she called back, trying to sound calm. "Shut off the intercom." Then, assuming JARVIS had done so, she continued talking to Clint soothingly. "Loki wasn't here. It was a dream. You woke up, felt someone touching you--"

"Loki was here!" Clint bellowed. He was sweating, breathing hard. His stance was off, since he had to keep his face down, but she didn't want to use that knowledge to take him out. More knocks to the head couldn't be good for his eyes. Or his head.

"Okay," she conceded. "I'll agree that he could have been here, if you'll acknowledge that it could have been a dream."

That made him hesitate. He lowered the lamp slowly. Nat stepped up, putting her hand on the pole between his. When she tugged, he only resisted a moment before releasing it.

"This sucks," Clint muttered, showing a glimpse of unhappiness. Nat ran her gaze over him, assessing him quickly.

"I know," she said at last. "But it's only temporary."

His lips pursed, and she wondered if there was something he hadn't told her. But she just put her hand on his back, urging him gently forward, once more to the chair.

"We just have to ride it out," Nat reassured him as he sat.

"Right," he mumbled into the head rest. "That's all."

**  
Later Still

Clint closed his eyes, pretending like the darkness was his own idea. "So. Jarvis. Come here often?"

"I am part of the building, Agent Barton."

Clint resisted a sigh. "That's not quite what I meant..."

**  
Early Afternoon

Darcy shifted her duffel on her shoulder, waiting for the elevator doors to open. When they did, no one was there. She stepped into the foyer warily, wondering if Barton was going to leap out at her and break her nose like the last nurse claimed he'd done. "Hello?" She glanced around the empty room. It looked rather like a model home; perfectly decorated with absolutely no personality. To the right a glass partition sectioned off a raised dias with an elaborate dining table that, she guessed, would have cost a month's tuition. To the left a wall became a half wall, and beyond were pool tables and wood siding, a real man's room. Straight ahead the walls curved, and she could only get a glimpse of a spacious living area and a glass wall with a balcony, the view of Manhattan spilling out below.

"Agent Barton is in the back rooms," JARVIS told her gently.

From the back, someone shouted, "Here!"

Feeling a little more confident of her welcome, Darcy walked around the fancy raised dining area and down the hall, into a set of private rooms. She paused at the doorway, as Barton stood awkwardly from a weird looking chair in the center of another living room, this one smaller and more comfortable-looking. His hair stood up all over the place and a bandage was still wrapped around his head.

"Hi," she said, waving. Not that he could see it. "Director Fury sent me, after Tony said you broke the last nurse's nose. He got my name from Thor and Dr. Selvig, and I guess he figured if I could deal with Thor and the Destroyer without having a breakdown, I could probably, you know, deal with you." She paused, shuffled from one foot to the other, and added, "Not that you aren't god-like or anything. Except you're not. This isn't coming out right..."

She couldn't see Clint's expression, since he was facing the floor. "I'm sorry," he said, " _what's_ your name?"

"Darcy. Darcy Lewis." She tucked her hair behind her ear, glancing around again. The off-white carpet was thick under her feet. Practically springy.

"Nice to meet you. You're a nurse?"

"Not exactly. But it sounds like you don't need a nurse so much as a--" She was about to say babysitter, but stopped. "Help." At least the introductions were over and no punching had happened. "We should sit you back down. Love the shirt, by the way. But I'm pretty sure everyone knows you're an Avenger."

**  
Afternoon

Nat had arrived sometime earlier, sending Darcy on her way. Clint was relieved to be in familiar company again, even if the game they'd somehow fallen into was completely morbid.

"If I go permanently blind," he said conversationally, "I could always join the circus and shoot stationary targets. I'd be a hit." He lifted his face off the rest a little, rubbing his forehead before settling back down.

"Indeed," Nat agreed serenely, ignoring his pun. "Or you could learn an actual skill. Like law."

"The guys I didn't send away I could beat up with my fancy blind-person stick?"

"Something like that."

He quirked a smile. "That's ridiculous."

"I know; I can't imagine you with an actual degree, either."

"Ouch." But Clint laughed.

"All right, enough fun. Sitwell sent over the paperwork you haven't filled out correctly over the last few months, and I'm the only one with clearance high enough to go over it with you, so..."

He heard a laptop come to life with an annoying chime, and curled his hands around the headrest in preparation. He'd never bothered too much with paperwork before. Before, Coulson had been his handler, and that was one of the things Phil handled for him. A six-pack and take-out, lounging back in his apartment, Phil with papers spread all over or talking to him on the phone.

_"So,"_ Phil would say, chair creaking as he settled in. _"That mission in Botswana. What happened there?"_ And Clint would just talk, answering questions and telling stories while Phil chuckled or hummed or scratched his pen across paper. Phil didn't like laptops. Phil liked doing things the old fashioned way.

Nat's voice broke through his thoughts. " _Boze moi_ , Barton, you just don't believe in forms, do you? Have you done _any_ of this?"

His hands tightened on the headrest again. He forced them to relax as pain stabbed through his broken pinky. "Not really. I mean, I used to... Phil and I--" He wasn't sure how to end that sentence. _We used to eat Thai and act like we weren't working? He'd fool me into thinking it was just conversation, so I didn't argue and complain the whole time?_

"...Right." Her voice was soft. "Okay. Well. This one looks like it's from just after the whole alien thing. You were in Columbia -- remember that?"

It wasn't as good as doing it with Phil. But it wasn't bad, either. Clint relaxed marginally. "Sure, yeah. It was hot and sticky and Fury pulled me off leave for it."

Nat chuckled. Her chair creaked softly as she settled in. Clint paused, remembering not Columbia, but the last time he'd spoken with Phil.

"I miss him, too," Nat murmured.

Clint swallowed, nodded abortively against the headrest, and went on.

**  
Evening

Steve pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets, trying not to fidget as he rode the elevator up. He was constantly surprised that Tony had made an apartment for him, and doubly surprised every time they had one of these group dinners. The addition of Clint and Miss Romanoff had made it less awkward last night -- or rather, everyone was trying so hard not to be awkward around Clint that they'd forgotten not to be awkward around each other -- but Steve figured that wouldn't last forever.

The elevator doors slid open, and Tony's voice rang out.

"Give me one more second, Steve, and--"

Miss Potts interrupted. "Oh, _Tony_." She laughed from the den, visible through a doorway, and pushed Tony off the black leather couch. Steve quickly averted his eyes, waiting to head to the den until he was sure they were presentable. "Don't worry, Steve, you weren't interrupting anything -- and _don't_ let him try to convince you otherwise."

"No, ma'am," Steve said with a quick smile, glad to see Miss Potts back from her trip. He eased into motion, entering the room as Tony headed toward the bar in one corner. Her presence would surely smooth things over. He'd never understand why a dame as classy as Pepper was with a cad like Tony. But his mother had taught him better than to lash out at people just because he didn't approve of them, so he only offered Tony a polite smile. "Dr. Banner is on his way. Has anyone else gotten here?"

Pepper unfolded from the couch, all long legs under her professional looking skirt. Steve kept his eyes on her face. She was smiling, so that was easy enough. He smiled back. "You're the first," she told him, holding out a glass of red wine.

He'd given up telling her drinking did him no good. After the third time she'd looked at him with a twinkle in her blue eyes and responded, "I don't drink to get drunk, Steve. I drink to enjoy the taste and to engage in the social activity." Then she'd laughed and added, "And sometimes to get drunk." After that, it seemed rude to keep saying no.

He took the glass of wine.

"Captain America doesn't want wine, Pepper," Tony said, wheeling around the end of the bar. "He wants beer! Something watery and common."

"I'm fine with this," Steve said, annoyed despite the fact that he really would have preferred beer (though not of the watery variety).

"That's good," Tony said, peering into the mini-fridge. "Because I only have micro brews. No Bud Lite." He flicked a look up from under his eyebrows, as if hoping to see the barb strike.

Steve gave Tony an utterly bland look, trying to think of Bucky's little brother. Best way to shut him down always had been to treat him like the fool he was.

He didn't know if it would work on Tony this time or not, because the elevator doors slid open again, and Steve turned to see Miss Romanoff and Barton within. Miss Romanoff stepped forward, her hand on Barton's elbow, pulling him with her. Barton still had his head down, and walked as if he were heading into the lion's den. Which maybe wasn't far from the truth. Of course, given the scruff growing on his face and the way his hair stood up, he rather looked like he'd been mauled by lions. At least the bandage around his head had been removed. Miss Romanoff was murmuring to him in an undertone, her eyes flicking from one person to the next. Giving him a rundown of who was where, Steve guessed.

"If it isn't the man of the hour!" Tony declared. "What'll it be? Whiskey? Scotch?" He looked at Miss Romanoff and said in a horrific Russian accent, "Vodka?"

Pepper walked around the bar, slapping Tony's arm lightly. "There's wine, too, but I'm guessing Agent Barton has to stay dry."

"Yeah," Barton said, face swiveling toward Pepper only to drop again as he caught himself. "Thanks, though."

"I don't," Miss Romanoff said. "I'd love a glass of wine."

"Bruce!" Tony shouted, arms expanding in welcome as the stairwell door opened. "You'll join me in liquor, right? Have a drink. I have your favorite."

Bruce, curly hair in its usual disarray, threw a glance around the room before his gaze landed on Tony again. He gave an uncertain smile, playing with the earpieces of his glasses before he tucked them in his shirt pocket. "What's my favorite?"

Tony spread his hands on the bar. "I don't know, but whatever it is, I have it."

"I don't drink," Bruce said apologetically. "Just seems like a bad idea."

"Live a little!" Tony cried.

Steve spoke, a little annoyed on Bruce's behalf. "I think it's a sensible precaution."

Tony scoffed.

"Not everyone wants to live like you, Tony," Steve pointed out, and then bit off anything else as Pepper crossed the room toward them. He wouldn't offend her.

Pepper was nowhere near as deadly but ten times more womanly than Miss Romanoff, something that seemed more obvious as they drew near each other. "I, for one, applaud Bruce's willpower," Pepper said. "And you, Tony, will stop giving him a hard time about it." She handed Miss Romanoff a glass of wine, then turned and smiled at Barton as if he could see her. "Agent Barton -- may I call you Clint?"

He looked up, looked down, offered the floor a polite smile. "Of course." He, Steve noted, had some manners.

Pepper smiled back. "I'm afraid we don't have one of those chairs up here for you, but if you want I can send someone to get the one from your apartment--"

"I could--" Steve started to volunteer.

"No," Barton said quickly, and gave another brief smile, his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of her breasts. Steve figured Barton really couldn't see, because surely no one would stare that obviously. "I'm perfectly fine without."

"Oh, good. In that case..." Pepper turned to put herself on Barton's other side, so he was bracketed by the only women in the room. She linked her arm through his, and his came up automatically as if he were escorting her somewhere. "The communal dining room is this way." She sauntered while chatting, making Barton's slower-than-average progress seem as if it were her idea.

Steve silently notched her up even higher in his respect category, her bad taste in men notwithstanding.

******


	4. Part Two: Day 3-7

Day 3-7

Day Three  
Morning

Nat stared at Clint, wearing the bottoms of his hospital scrubs as pajama pants and his scars as a top, hair nearly untouched from a night sleeping in his specialized chair, and blood running steadily down his chin.

"How," she asked incredulously, "did you manage to cut yourself with a safety razor?"

**  
Afternoon

Back in the hospital, and the good news was that the first air bubble had absorbed. The bad news was that now they were going to inject a second one into his left eye.

"I don't see why they couldn't do both eyes at once," Nat complained, flipping through a magazine. She wasn't good at sitting still, and the chair was making her butt sore. Clint had suggested earlier that she call Darcy to drive his sorry ass around, and she was going to do exactly that. Darcy was getting paid for this, after all.

And Nat _was_ going to call.

Once Clint was in surgery.

"The angle my head rests at has to be right to keep the bubbles from hitting the optic nerve and blinding me permanently," Clint said into the pillow. "It's not the same angle for both eyes."

She closed the magazine and stood, pacing to the window of the little hospital room. At least he got his own room, instead of staying in a curtained-off cubby like everyone else. Being a SHIELD agent had perks. She parted the blinds with two fingers, peering out between them at the rainy day below.

"Nat, Tony must have someone on staff who can come get me. Surgery and recovery's going to take a few hours. You don't have to wait."

She put her hands on her hips, then crossed them under her breasts, and wished she'd worn something with pockets. "I don't have anything better to do, anyway. I've been pulled off all missions, so..."

"Funny," Clint said dryly, "I heard you'd requested time off."

Nat shot him a dark look. "I took time off when Loki scrambled your brain. I'm not taking more time off for your pathetic self." She stared back out the window, marking the comings and goings of cars. "You just need to stop letting little girls beat you up."

"I got possessed by a god, and fell off a helicopter. How are either of those things little girls?"

Nat smiled at his tone.

"You really should just go home."

She leaned against the wall, watching condensation drip down the window pane. "I'll go home soon. Soon as you're in surgery."

"Okay," he muttered. "That's good."

They didn't say anything more, and a few minutes later the doctor and nurse came to prep him. Nat inched closer, sat down when they left, threaded her fingers through his while the initial drugs started to work. Tension eased out of his body. "If you do go blind," Nat said, leaning forward to press her hand -- and therefore his -- against her lips, "we could get you a dog."

Clint gave a soft, sleepy laugh. "I always wanted a dog."

The nurse came back. They bustled and moved and loaded him up with his IV bag, then wheeled him out the door.

"I know," Nat said to the empty room.

She'd stay a little while longer. Just in case.

**  
Evening

He didn't know there was someone in the room until the chair creaked and she said, "You made it. Doc says surgery went well."

Clint smiled loopily and waved a hand around until he found her, hitting her face and sliding down to her boobs before she caught his wrist. He giggled. "Oops. Sorry, Nat. Tasha. Nahhh-tasshhhhaaaaa." He pushed himself up to try and look at her, squinting against the impossible darkness. "Thought you were gonna call Darcy."

"Yeah, well... I was reading a magazine. Got caught up. Figured she could use the time off."

He squirmed to reach awkwardly under himself with his other arm, to pat her hand where she held onto his. "I'm glad you're here."

"Okay, happy man." One hand gripped his, fingers threaded, and angled him back to his stomach. The other hand landed between his shoulder blades and rested there, pushing him down. "I think you need to lie face-down, all right? Just stay there. I'll be here when your head clears."

"Tha's good." He let himself swim in the drugs. "Tha's real good."

**  
Day Four  
Morning

"Oh. My. God." Darcy clapped her hands over her mouth, nearly bouncing on her toes as she looked at Clint's shirt. "Chibi Avengers! I want one!"

**  
Day Five  
Afternoon

"Captain, I believe your service might be appreciated in Agent Barton's apartment."

Steve paused, just finished wrapping his hands. There was no reason; he couldn't hurt himself against a punching bag. But old habits were soothing. "Again?"

"Indeed."

He looked at the wall as if he could actually look at Jarvis. "What's wrong with Barton?"

"Severe muscle cramps leading to pain in his spinal column, sir. I believe it comes from sitting in a position he is unaccustomed to for too long. Ms Lewis seems unable to help, and asked me to find assistance."

And it wasn't like Clint could shift, since going blind was the other option. "What do you think I can do about it?"

"Pressure applied correctly and with enough force should make the muscles loosen, and provide relief."

Steve frowned and returned to wrapping his hands. Over, under, across, and again. "Stark could definitely do that."

"Indeed. I shall inform him of Agent Barton's predicament, and I am sure he will help."

Steve wasn't sure, but that sounded like another reproof. "Okay, fine," he said with irritation. "But then I'm going to the gym."

"Very good, sir."

He yanked off the wraps, tossing them on the table, and glared at the walls. No house should be able to make a man feel so guilty.

**  
Later Afternoon

Nat went tearing out of the elevator into Clint's apartment, listening to him bellow curses. She flew around the corner, down the hall, snatching a short length of lead from her pocket as she went. Through the doors--

And slid to a halt.

Everyone looked at her. Except Clint, who looked up suddenly, face flushed, and asked, "Why'd you stop?"

Steve leaned in again, hands moving surely over Clint's back, and Clint cursed and let his head drop into the headrest.

"Hi." Darcy tossed another piece of popcorn into her mouth. "Clint was cramping, and JARVIS called Steve to help."

Clint groaned weakly.

Darcy held out the bowl. "Popcorn? It's quite a show."

"Shut up Darc-- ohh God, yes, right there," Clint said, words dissolving into nearly orgasmic goo.

Nat's eyebrows rose. She let the iron bar fall back into her pocket, folding herself onto the couch beside Darcy and taking a handful of popcorn.

Steve frowned at them both. "Girls baffle me," he muttered in an undertone. Then the muscles in his arms, bared by the T-shirt he wore, flexed as he pressed forward over Clint's back. Clint's muscles drew taut before releasing, and Clint breathed like he'd run a marathon.

Or something.

Clint gave a weak, self-satisfied chuckle. "Oh, c'mon, Steve. They prefer the term women, and they aren't that baffling."

Nat popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth and crunched slowly.

**  
Evening

"I've got it," Tony said, snapping his fingers.

Laying on the couch in the community den, Clint startled at the sudden noise, felt Nat's hand on his ankle, and stilled.

"Cybernetics. We'll build you some new eyes, Robin Hood, and they'll be better than they were before." Already, Tony's voice was fading as he wandered away. "X-ray eyes!"

**  
Day Six  
Evening

"Hey, Clint?"

Clint swiveled from chasing his food around his dinner plate, aiming himself toward Bruce without picking up his head. "Yeah?"

"You know SHIELD's inner workings. How likely would they be to let us take a look at Loki's scepter?"

A chill swept through him. Loki was in Asgard, though, and his scepter couldn't do a thing without power. "You could ask Fury," Clint said. "But I think he'd laugh at you."

"Ah, well," Bruce said with resignation.

Tony spoke up. "I still say we'd do better work on it than Fury's people."

Beside Clint, Pepper leaned close and murmured, "Your steak is to your left."

He buried all his uneasiness at the topic and embarrassment at being unable to find his own damn food, and murmured back, "Thanks."

**  
Day Seven  
Afternoon

Nat hated spending the day in Clint's apartment. He supposed he couldn't blame her, and after a week he couldn't say that spending the day on the community level was God-awful. Which was where he was, sprawled on his belly on the couch while Nat sat in a chair nearby, reading, when a voice bellowed through the Tower.

Thor, unlike Steve, Tony, and Bruce, had a voice that couldn't possibly be mistaken for anyone else, despite the fact that until that moment he'd been in Asgard and Clint hadn't heard him speak since the alien incident.

"Well met, friend! I am told you sustained injury during battle. How fare thee?"

The couch dipped as Thor -- Clint assumed -- sat.

"Well enough," Clint said, wishing for the hundredth time that he didn't have to be laying on his stomach, or sitting stooped over, spine exposed. Sure, Thor was an ally, but he wasn't a _friend_. Clint was remarkably short on those. "I take it you got the bifrost fixed?"

"Indeed! The tessaract was the final thing we needed. It's now safely harnessed for the good of Asgard."

Fabulous. "And Loki?"

The good cheer was gone, suddenly. "He is... paying for his transgressions." There was a beat of silence before Thor spoke again, rallying. "I'm told that you could use companionship. How may I be of service?"

Nat, sitting in the chair near Clint's feet, answered. "Stick around. Television's not so entertaining when you can't see." Her voice rose on the last, not her tone but the actual location. "And tell him when people come in." She laid a hand on Clint's ankle. "I'm going to the gym."

"You're leaving me here?" Clint muttered.

"You're in gods' hands, now." There was a definite note of amusement in her voice.

"Explain to me about television," Thor said, apparently settling in. "We do not have this in Asgard."

**  
Later Afternoon

For the first time in days, he was laughing. Real laughter. Not the kind you laughed because if you didn't laugh people would know you were hurt.

"And now," Thor said in a hush, "she is crossing the room. Ah, she looks angry."

On the television soap, the woman -- Cindi or Candi or something -- took an audible breath and said with great drama, "The baby, Todd. It... it isn't yours."

Thor let out a groan. "For truth, I saw this coming! A woman as beautiful as that does not lay with Dvergar like him! Did I not say that, Clint?"

Clint laughed again, weakly. "Thor, I don't know what a 'dvergar' is."

"They are a small, ground dwelling peoples," Thor said. "Extremely hairy. But quiet! Todd is speaking. He looks like a man crushed."

**  
Evening

Clint walked the perimeter of his room, one hand trailing along the wall. His boot was sturdy enough to support his ankle, which was improving anyway. Methodically, he was putting together a map of the private area in his apartment.

His pinky throbbed. Worse, though, his muscles were starting to cramp again, unhappy with him having to keep his head down. Nat kept trying to push sedatives on him, since the pain pills weren't enough, and he kept refusing.

He'd thrown her out, finally, when they were bickering and the words had an edge to them. Told her to get some air. That was a few hours ago and it might have been a mistake.

He just needed to not think, that was all. It wasn't easy when visual distractions were taken out of the equation.

"Jarvis," he called out, pausing at the doorway. "Didn't Tony say the lower levels were staffed with lay-people?"

"Scientists, civilians and the like. Yes, sir."

Clint pondered that. "Doesn't it make them nervous to be right below the Avengers? The Hulk and Thor and everyone?"

"I cannot speak to their emotional state, sir," Jarvis said primly, "but applications went up sixty-four percent when Mr. Stark re-made the tower to be Avengers headquarters."

Well. He'd always known scientists were insane.

Clint made a right turn and stepped into space. He'd charted most of the room, walking the wall until he reached the doorway, then turning at different angles and walking as straight as he could until something stopped him.

"Jarvis," he called again, halfway across the room. "How can I seal the records of this room so Tony can't spy on me?"

There was a long silence. "I believe you would need to speak with Mr. Stark," Jarvis answered at last.

Clint snorted. That figured.

"I believe, sir, your five minutes are up."

Five minutes, the doctor had said. He could get up and walk around for five minutes a few times a day. He'd taken "a few" to mean every three hours. Charting the room out in five minute increments wasn't easy, but he'd been doing it. Now at least he knew where his chair was.

Turn at a forty-five degree angle, take ten steps forward. He paused there and held out his hands, feeling. Each time he did it was a little less off, but keeping track of the length and number of each step wasn't easy.

There was his chair. He straddled it, leaning forward against the chest rest and putting his face back in the circular piece.

His muscles knotted up almost immediately.

Jarvis spoke. "Would you like me to continue the audiobook Agent Romanoff left?"

"No," he said tiredly. "How many days has it been since I got here?"

"Seven," Jarvis answered promptly.

Two days before that in the hospital. Nine days since he'd gone blind and had the first surgeries. Three severe nightmares in the intervening time, dreams that had woken him in a cold sweat and made him question where he was and what he thought he knew.

He tried to shift into a more comfortable position, lifted a hand and pressed his fingertips into the knots of muscle along his shoulder blades, wondered what else he could ask Jarvis. If he kept Jarvis talking, it kept him from thinking.

Something creaked behind him.

He sat up, turning his head to hear better. "Jarvis? Is anyone in my apartment?"

"Only yourself, sir."

But computers could be hacked, right?

He listened intently. The walls were soundproofed, he'd learned (from Jarvis) earlier that day. He wasn't hearing anything from above or below him. (No one would hear him if he needed help.) He strained for any sign of anything.

Nothing.

Slowly, Clint leaned on the chair. He hated having his back exposed to the world.

There it was -- another creak. He stood. "Hello?" The standing lamp was a 75 degree turn to his right and fifteen paces.

"There is no one but yourself present, sir."

But he could hear something, now. Someone breathing. His hairs prickled up, and the sure knowledge that someone else was in the warehouse settled in his mind.

House. Not warehouse.

Not warehouse, right?

He strained to see, but it was too dark.

"Sir, I believe you should rest," a voice said, and he whipped around to discover the source, reaching for his bow.

Which was gone.

He was injured. He remembered that. His leg felt heavy and wrong. He couldn't see into the depths of the shadows. Couldn't see at all. Too dark; nighttime, no lights, the stars blotted out by smog.

He should have had his bow. He couldn't remember what had happened to it. The rafters were crawling with snipers and bruisers, he knew that and he started backing softly toward the wall. He needed cover.

The wall came upon him suddenly, and he slid along it, placing each foot -- especially his injured one -- with great care. The only point in his favor here was that they didn't know where he was. Six of them had followed him in. It would have been a fair fight, if he'd had his bow. If there'd been _any_ light at all. He didn't remember it being this dark. He didn't remember what had happened to his bow.

No point in wondering. Deal with what he had here. If he could find them, one at a time, he could take them out. If he could keep them silent, then maybe he could take most of them out before they were able to hunt him down.

Something dinged. He tensed, looked that way, saw nothing. No matter how he tried he couldn't pierce the darkness.

"Agent Barton?" Then, hesitantly, "Clint?" A man's voice. Not one he recognized. A trap? Back up? Another agent wouldn't call him Clint. It had to be a trick.

He slid along the wall silently and swiftly. Immobilize the opposition. Maybe it was a trap, but this was his best lead as to where anyone was.

Footsteps down the hall. He found the doorway and paused, waiting.

"Clint?"

There.

Clint stepped out, slamming his elbow back toward the voice. He connected, and footsteps staggered back. It was still too dark to see, but that didn't stop him chasing the noise, stomping hard with his good foot and catching someone's instep.

"Clint!" the same voice snapped, and a moment later a hand grabbed his arm, impossibly fast and impossibly strong. It whipped him around, slamming his back to the other -- larger -- man's chest. An arm looped through his elbow, and he was pinned in place. He ducked to roll his assailant over his shoulder -- and couldn't. He let the man take his weight and kicked back with both feet, instead. It didn't work either. He whipped his head backward, didn't quite connect as his assailant grunted something and twisted away, grip loosening.

Clint wrenched free. It didn't last long. His assailant grabbed him again, one leg and one arm, and hauled him off his feet. The slam to the ground as gravity carried him down didn't arrive. Instead, he was put gently down on his back, but kept in a hold that, no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't break out of. It exposed his windpipe. It could have killed him.

The warehouse floor was oddly soft, and there were voices, three of them now.

"I don't think I should be here--"

"I'm afraid you're the only one who knows how to give injections. There are sedatives in the top drawer of the entertainment system."

"Easy, Clint, easy. You're in the Avenger's Tower--"

"Yes, in that drawer."

"Hold him steady--"

He was _not_ getting drugged. He twisted, though it was useless, and pulled his arms in tight to keep from exposing a vein. Whoever had him pinned grabbed his forearm and held it to the ground, which should have given him enough wiggle room to break free, but somehow didn't. The man was a _tank_ , immovable and implacable.

"--I really don't like this--"

"--better than him re-injuring himself, Doctor--"

"--I can't get a vein while he's thrashing--"

Clint bellowed. It was the only thing left to him, and that at least he could do. The needle slid under his skin, but unless they had the world's best luck, it was muscle and not vein that they hit. He had three to fifteen minutes before the drugs kicked in, depending on the drug and the dose. He could still escape if they let him go.

He went limp. Let his head fall back -- a hand cushioned it so he didn't hit the ground, which was odd -- and stopped fighting. It worked. The man holding him down started to slacken off.

"No no no no," the other voice said. "It shouldn't work that fast, or that completely." Fingers at his wrist. Bluff called, he whipped his head around and tried to bite. The fingers yanked back before he connected. "Try to keep his head still. His retinas won't be helped by any more blows--"

"I know." It came out as a grunt. Good. He was making them work for it, then. Hands gripped him, shifting. The world twisted. Noises were starting to smear. He fought again, but found himself pinned against the same board-hard chest, arms looped under his and then around, fingers linked across the back of his head, forcing it forward. Legs wrapped around his. They weren't standing; he couldn't slide out.

How many of them in the warehouse? Why hadn't they just snapped his neck?

"Clint," the first voice said again, near his head. "This is Avenger's Tower. We're friends."

Some sort of game. Some kind of--

He remembered the warehouse. The dark, the black.

His heart thundered in his chest, so hard it was almost painful. He couldn't breathe.

Avengers Tower.

The drug was kicking in. He could feel it when his heart rate began to slow.

"There you go," his assailant murmured. "See, easy. We're friends. It's a flashback, but it'll pass."

He'd heard -- he'd heard--

Footsteps. He struggled briefly, but every motion was hard.

Three minutes? Four?

The ground was too soft to be a warehouse. His breathing came easier. It was too dark to be night, even with smog and no moon. The darkness was too complete.

He'd had his bow in the warehouse. He'd been shot in the calf, not immobilized by a boot.

"There you go," the voice said. The grip loosened, though didn't release. "Clint?"

A new voice, in front of him. "Clint, can you tell me where you are?"

He swallowed. His throat and mouth were dry. Everything felt heavy and slow. He took another breath. And another. He remembered the darkness of the warehouse. He remembered talking to Jarvis. He closed his eyes tightly, saw flashes of light that weren't real. He'd heard footsteps. "There's someone in the room."

"Yes," the voice behind him said. "I'm here. Steve. And Bruce is here. Dr. Banner. Jarvis is too, but he's not exactly someone."

Banner's voice: "Hey, Clint. I'm here." A hand clasped his shin, the one without the boot. "I'm afraid Natasha hasn't returned yet. Do you remember where you are?"

His head was mostly at the right angle. He had to keep the air bubble off his optical nerve. He tipped his head slightly, felt Steve's grip tense and then relax when he didn't keep moving. Steve. Captain America. No wonder it had felt like fighting with a tank. "Yeah," he said sluggishly. "Avenger's Tower."

There was a collective exhalation.

"Clint, I'm going to stand up with you," Steve said, legs unwinding from around Clint's. "And I'm going to walk you to your chair, and we're going to get you back into it. All right?"

"Yeah," he mumbled.

Steve changed his grip, standing. It was like being lifted by an elephant. He staggered to his feet, but needn't have bothered. Steve practically held him, coaxing him across the floor and sitting him back down. Slowly, Steve let go.

"I heard someone in here," Clint said, rousing. "I heard footsteps."

Jarvis spoke. "I believe what you may have heard is commonly referred to as 'the building settling.'"

He opened his mouth to argue, but couldn't summon the energy. Just breathing took everything he had.

"Someone should probably stay with him." Bruce didn't sound pleased at the fact.

"I can stay here," Steve said. "I was just watching the game."

Bruce spoke, curious. "Which game?"

"Game 5 of the 1956 World Series," Steve said.

A pause. Then, "Ah."

Clint faded out, and when he drifted back in again there was baseball playing. _The crowds are in an uproar--_ someone said, the recording scratchy. He drifted back out.

**  
Later Evening

Steve heard his elevator close behind him and stepped farther into his apartment. He rubbed his face with one hand, walking back toward the kitchen. "Jarvis, what do you know about flashbacks?" Occasionally one of his Commandos had had similar issues.

"Are you referring to the episode with Agent Barton?"

"Yeah," Steve said. He poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter. "I suppose I am."

"Then I believe the information you truly want is on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. During World War II it was referred to as Shell Shock or Combat Fatigue."

Steve nodded slowly; he'd heard both those terms, and seen some of the things that went along with it. Once a car had backfired while the Commandos had been on leave; half of them had hit the deck, and one had stayed down. He hadn't returned to the field. "All right," Steve said. "Give me everything you know on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

**  
Night

"Clint?"

He woke from a doze, dreaming of falling from a cliff forever, smashing his way down the side, unable to stop. When he opened his eyes, the world was still dark. He blinked, started to straighten up and rub his eyes, and remembered. The fall, the search, the rescue, the hospital, the trip to Avengers Tower, the flashback, his meltdown. Getting drugged. He took his hand away. "Here." The word came out a husky croak. He cleared his throat. "Where's Rogers?"

"Steve? I sent him back to his room." She hesitated. "You okay? He said..."

Clint could well imagine what he'd said. And the worst of it was, this hadn't been the first time. Clint had heard Loki when the nurse had tried to wake him, for Chrissakes.

Anger rushed up to replace embarrassment at the memory. "I'm-- I'm not--" He clutched at the headrest, short nails digging in, and caught his breath. Jesus, the last thing he needed was a panic attack. He hadn't had one in years, but it loomed, now. His heart pounded, shredding the last of the sedatives in his system. They'd _sedated_ him. The words forced themselves out. "I'm not okay. I can't _see_ , Nat, and I can't tell where I am, and I'm having fucking _flashbacks_ because of it--" He ground his teeth together, stopping the words.

The room was silent. He didn't know where Nat was, or if she'd left. He swallowed. He still didn't hear anything. He pushed upward. "Nat?" Good God, if she'd left and he didn't even know--

"Right here," Nat said. Her voice was closer. Wary, now. She didn't like hysterics. She didn't like emotions, if she could avoid them. He knew that. He knew a lot of things about her.

Clint wrestled everything back under control. He clenched his teeth, used it to ground himself. "Don't go."

"I wasn't planning on it. It'll come back, you know. Your sight. That's the point of all this laying around--"

"You don't know that." The conversation with the doctor was burned into his mind. He'd replayed it dozens of times, looking for a different outcome. His memory didn't lie, even if he had lied. Even if he'd told her, told everyone, that it would be fine. It wasn't fine.

"They did surgery. They said it would come back--"

"In _one_ eye, Nat. In my _right_ eye they hope _some_ of it will come back. But I was out there for a long time. By the time we got into surgery it had been nearly twelve hours since I'd gone blind, and you're apparently supposed to be in surgery by the time it starts going gray. Gray! That was a full day earlier! They don't even know if they can get any vision back in my left eye!" His voice rose. He'd sat up, he realized dimly. Panic rushed through, leaving him shaky and sick. His eyes -- defunct and useless -- burned. He couldn't catch his breath.

He couldn't be _blind_.

"Here," Nat said. Close to him. Something cracked -- the lid on a water bottle, he thought -- and a moment later she put several pills in his bad hand and the bottle in the other. "Take those."

He did, woodenly. Swallowed them all with a chug and grimaced at the taste. She took the bottle and put her hand between his shoulder blades, right in that spot a person would shoot, and pressed him back down until his face was on the rest. "I didn't know," she said quietly.

"I didn't tell you," he answered, numb.

"You have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. We can talk to them then."

Clint nodded wordlessly, though he knew it wouldn't do much good. They'd told him they wouldn't know more for weeks. After a moment he asked, "What were the pills?" Faintly, he realized there'd been more than usual.

"Oxycodone, amoxicillin, and temazepam."

He frowned. Pain killer, antibiotic, and... "Temazepam?"

"It's a sleeping pill."

He shot upward. "What the hell--"

Nat's hand landed between his shoulders again, less gently this time, and pushed him back down. "I Googled it, it's fine with the sedative. Relax," she said, quietly exasperated. "It can't _make_ you sleep if you're determined not to."

This was what he got, some part of his brain reasoned, for panicking in front of Natasha. "You can't just _drug_ me without telling me--"

"Clint." It was said as if he were some errant child and drugging him was perfectly natural. He was going to bridle some more, but then he heard her pull something over, the creak of leather, and the brush of her leg against his as she sat down. "Now, where were we? Oh, right. Bourne. Bourne is awful. How about I start on Les Miserables instead?"

She was staying. He might have to sleep, she'd _drugged him_ , but she wasn't leaving. Clint relaxed a little more. "Because I will stab you if you do."

"Les Miserables it is." She took a breath and began to read, and Clint let the words flow over him, though they couldn't quite banish the memories.

_"We've done everything we can. We'll just have to wait and see."_

*****


	5. Part Two: Day 8-10

Day Eight  
Afternoon

The other air bubble had absorbed, and he'd been cleared to stand like a normal person again. The news from the doctor had been the same, though: they'd have to wait and see, but he shouldn't expect full vision back. He was trying not to think about that. There was nothing he could do but wait, and he wasn't good at waiting. So, in celebration of being able to stand upright, he was watching TV with Thor.

Clint found he liked watching television a lot more when Thor was narrating. Even commercials became entertaining, when "She is running through a green field dotted with yellow flowers, and now they are pouring blue water over some kind of padded object" was said in Thor's Shakespearean-sounding accent.

Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to match Thor's excitement.

"You're quiet today, friend."

Clint turned towards Thor a little, rousing. "I... didn't sleep well."

The television prattled on. The couch dipped as Thor shifted. "In my land, when men go through a great and terrible battle, the ghosts of those dead linger in their souls, becoming demons. They create madness and unaccountable fear. They make their victims see things that aren't really there."

Anger coiled in Clint's stomach. "Steve's been talking to you."

"Indeed. It is no shame to be possessed by such a demon--"

"I'm not possessed by a demon, Thor. I _can't see_." He stood. A hand clamped down on his shoulder and shoved, and he slammed back into the couch.

"Ah, sorry," Thor said. "I forget how... uh..."

"Weak?" Clint suggested dryly.

"I was looking for something less offensive, but yes. How weak humans are." After a beat, Thor continued. "I did not mean to offend, Clint. Only to console. Perhaps we should simply watch TV."

**  
Night

Clint couldn't sleep. He tried not to think, easier now that he could walk around without worrying that the air bubble would dislodge and blind him. So he roamed his apartment for an hour, exploring the parts he hadn't yet, which was everything except the private back rooms. It was huge. He built a mental map step by step, filling in furniture and walls and balconies. Jarvis told him where he was -- "You are in the living room, walking toward the inset sitting area" -- and kept a conversation going.

"Why did he name you 'Jarvis'?" Clint asked, sweeping his hands along the kitchen countertop. He didn't have to specify who he was talking about.

"JARVIS is an acronym for Just A Rather Very Intelligent System," Jarvis told him primly. "I believe it amused Mr. Stark. Agent Barton, the kitchen island is three feet directly behind you."

He reached the corner of two counters and turned, pleased to know his mental map had placed him accurately. "It's Clint, Jarvis. C'mon, you can say it. It's a short name. One syllable. Clint."

"Indeed it is, sir, but I am not programmed for informality."

Clint grinned. "Don't you ever call anyone by their first name? Maybe the other household appliances?"

"The other household appliances, as you put it, speak in binary."

"Sounds exciting." He realized, all of a sudden, that he was trying to get a rise out of Jarvis and stopped. Could you get a rise out of an AI? He leaned against the counter. "Jarvis, do you have emotions?"

"I am not programmed for emotions, sir."

Clint tipped his head. "But I've heard your dry wit. And I've heard you rebuke."

"I am not programmed for rebuke, Agent Barton."

Clint's eyebrows rose. "That sounded like a rebuke to me."

"I am programed to learn, respond, and mimic."

"So the people around you are dry or rebuking, and you pick it up."

"Indeed."

Clint hopped up on the counter, bumping his heels against the cupboard beneath. "What if people are flirting around you? Would you pick that up?"

"It must be supposed that I would. But my programming is such that I would use it only in context, and therefore it is a moot point."

"Why's that?" Clint tipped his head, thoughtful.

"People don't flirt with a computer, sir."

"Hm." He turned it over in his mind, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Do you take into account vocal tones and stress when you decide if someone is flirting or not?"

"Of course, sir."

"Interesting." Clint grinned.

**  
Day Nine  
Late Morning

"Clint!" Bruce said, footsteps hurrying across the tile in the community kitchen. "I'll walk you to the elevator."

Clint frowned. "I can--"

"I'm going that way anyway, and... I wanted to ask you something."

Intrigued despite himself, Clint held a hand out until Bruce fit his forearm beneath, then slid his hand up Bruce's arm to his shoulder. "All right."

The walk to the elevator was silent. "Do you know what you're wearing today?" Bruce asked hesitantly as the elevator doors closed.

"No idea." How they thought he'd know...

"Ah."

Silence. "You want to tell me?" he asked finally, when nothing more was forthcoming.

"Oh, it's-- it's not-- I mean, it just says 'It ain't easy bein' green.'"

Clint worked through the implications, and finally decided it probably wasn't an image of Kermit that made Bruce antsy, but another green guy. "I can change if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No! No, of course not. I just..." The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. "Would you like to come in?" There was an uncertain but hopeful quality in his voice, and Clint wished more than ever he could see. Body language would tell him so much more than just tone.

"Sure," he said warily, and with his hand still on Bruce's shoulder, followed Bruce into the apartment.

He tried to walk like he wasn't concerned about slamming into furniture with every step, like he trusted Bruce to guide him around things appropriately. It was a lie.

The layout was the same as in his apartment, though, and he recognized quickly that they were headed into the lounge area between the rec room and kitchen.

"Have a seat," Bruce said, steps pausing. "Straight in front of you."

Clint let go and stepped forward, sliding his feet lest he bang a toe. Sure enough, there was a plush chair and he sat down on the edge.

"It's about Natasha," Bruce said hesitantly. "I don't think she likes me."

That was the understatement of the year. Clint did his best to look neutral.

"I can't blame her, after all, but it makes things a little... a little tense. Is there any way you can think of that I could put her at ease? I'm as careful around her as possible, and I thought that with time it might improve, but..."

Clint leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, linking his hands between them. "Banner... you did turn into a giant green hulk and try to kill her."

"I--I didn't mean to." He sounded like he was struggling with something. "I don't normally lose control like that. You have to admit, those were unusual circumstances."

 _Not for us_ , he didn't say. "I don't know what you want me to do. It probably doesn't matter; she's only here because I'm here, and I'll only be here a few weeks."

"Can you tell me... what does she like? What doesn't she like? Maybe if I could find some common ground with her..."

"She likes custard," Clint said, at a loss himself. Nat played it close to the vest, and he couldn't tell Bruce the things Clint knew: she liked to cuddle (but didn't want sex -- or at least, not with Clint), she hated anyone's loss of control, she didn't like to talk about anything personal. "She likes to grapple," he offered, digging for anything appropriate.

"I don't-- I don't grapple. It's not a good idea. I run," Bruce said, as if offering an olive branch. Or, hell, the whole damn tree. "And I do yoga and Pilates."

Of course he did. "She runs," Clint said. "Every day, but she changes the time so her schedule can't be tracked."

"So I could... I could just wait outside the building. We could run together."

"Because waiting outside the building isn't creepy," Clint pointed out blandly.

Softly, Bruce said, "Damn. I was never good with women."

"Look," Clint said, finding himself wincing on Bruce's behalf, "just... talk to her. Say nice things. Compliment her ability to kill with her pinky."

"She can--?"

"I'm exaggerating." Clint thought about it. "Maybe. The point is, just treat her like a person you'd like to get to know. If she wants to come around, she will. And if she doesn't, you chasing her down and trying to make her will only make you less trustworthy."

Bruce sighed. "All right. Thanks." There was a hesitation, as if Bruce held his breath, and then he spoke again. "How are things? Is there--is there anything I can help with?"

Clint sat back. "Thanks, but not really. It's just a waiting game, now." One he didn't want to think about. One he sure as hell didn't want to talk about with near-strangers.

"Let me know if that changes. Come on. I'll walk you back to the elevator. You're okay from there...?"

"Yeah, Bruce," Clint said dryly, standing. "I can make my way through my own apartment."

**  
Day Ten  
Morning

Darcy fished the pain pills out from behind the nightstand where they'd fallen, keeping one eye on Clint. He needed her a lot less now -- yet another thing she couldn't put on her resume, "Played nursemaid for SHIELD agent" -- but still, he was pretty pathetic.

He scratched at his jaw, which had gone from stubble to beard over the last week. He looked kind of like a hobo. "Do you ever consider shaping your facial hair?" She asked, trying to be diplomatic. "You know, a light scruff instead of a full beard...?"

He dropped his hand from his face, frowning. "Is it really a full beard?"

"Ohhhh, yeah." She put the pills in their containers, standing and regarding him critically.

"I'm usually clean shaven. But Nat got me this cheap-ass safety razor and I can't see..."

"Right. One electric razor, coming up when I return tomorrow. In the meantime..." She hesitated, trying to decide if she was actually willing to do what she was about to suggest.

Yeah. Why not? "You want me to shave you?"

His sightless eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

"I can't promise it'll be the greatest job ever done, but hey, I do knees and armpits on a regular basis. Chins can't be much knobbier than that, right?"

He looked a little less confident now -- or maybe just slightly disturbed -- but he nodded gamely. "Exactly."

"Okay! Into the bathroom. And take off your shirt."

**  
Still Morning

"Natasha!"

She looked up at the overly enthusiastic greeting, stepping without a single hitch as she left the community gym -- much better stocked than the private gyms they each had in their apartments -- and saw Bruce in the hall. "Banner."

He fell into line beside her, taking two steps to her every one until he'd caught up. Curly hair fell over his forehead, and his button-up shirt was rumpled. "I was just -- I heard you like to run, and I thought I'd go for a run myself..."

She stepped into the elevator. He followed. His loafers were worn, but not running shoes. She inserted her code and punched her floor. "I just got done. Thanks, though."

"Oh. Right. Well, if you wanted to go tomorrow, maybe..."

"Yeah. Sure. I'll think about it." Her reflection in the elevator doors was impassive. His seemed nervous.

"Um... I got custard." He tucked his hands in his pockets, then took them out and pulled his glasses off, fiddling with them.

She looked at him steadily, emotions wiped off her expression, though what she really wanted to say was, "What the hell--?"

He looked pained. "That... that didn't sound as good out loud as it did in my head."

The elevator doors opened. She stepped into her apartment, and he made as if to follow. Nat turned, blocking his path, eyebrows up. "I need to get dressed."

Banner looked around, apparently just realizing where they were. His mouth tightened, as if he were repressing the urge to grimace, and he stepped back. "Right. I didn't mean to... uh, I'll just... head back..."

The doors closed on him.

Nat shook her head and started toward her room.

**  
Still Morning

Darcy leaned back to admire her handiwork. Clint was mostly clean shaven, with only one nick (totally not her fault) and a few areas where the hairs were still stubbly. But better.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "you're not bad looking."

"Uh... thanks?" His eyebrows scrunched a little, somewhere between a frown and a dubious expression.

"No, really." She leaned back, looking at him critically. No one could fault his body, even if he was a smidge shorter than average and had the odd scar here and there. And now with the full-on bear look toned down, it was better. His hair was still a mess, sticking out everywhere even after he'd run a brush through it and tried to pat it down. "You have this odd mish-mash of features, kind of like Mr. Potato Head, but put them all together and you're somehow really attractive, even though you shouldn't be. I mean, that nose on anyone else..."

His mouth opened, then closed. "Really, Darcy," he said blandly. "You'll make me blush."

She shrugged and walked away, off the warm, gray bathroom tile (she suspected heaters) and onto the plush carpet of the bedroom. "You should wear breast cancer awareness Avengers today!" she called, pulling the pink shirt out of the pile and heading to the closet for a pair of jeans.

"Sure, why not?" The bathroom faucet turned on, and she could hear him splashing, rinsing the hairs she'd missed. When he came out, his chest was still damp. Damn, but she loved those flannel pants.

She tossed the shirt at him, and he caught it before it fell. "What makes them breast cancer awareness Avengers?" he asked

"Everyone's armor is pink." So was the shirt. She watched as he pulled it on, chuckling quietly to himself. Pink looked good on him. "Jeans are on the bed. You can get your own underwear."

"I certainly can." His hands settled on the waistband of his pajama bottoms. "As soon as you leave the room."

Darcy grinned, bouncing past him, trailing her fingertip along his shoulders as she went. Just so he knew she was really going, of course. She was even a good enough person to close the door behind her.

**  
Afternoon

It was surprising, really, how often Steve found himself on the community level -- and how often there were others there, too. He knew why he did it: it was nice to be around people who understood the whole frozen-solider thing, even if they didn't really grasp what it was like.

"Verily," Thor laughed from the den, where he sat on the couch with Clint, "that rabbit is one wily creature!"

Of course, Steve had to admit he didn't really grasp the others' lives, either.

**  
Evening

Dinner was over, and Clint was nursing a drink. To his surprise, his doctors had said drinking was fine in moderate amounts, but he needed to avoid exercise. The excessive blood flow could put pressure on his retinas.

"Hey, there," Tony said, glass rattling against wood. "Need another?"

Clint faced him, tracking Tony by sound. "No, thanks, I'm good. Tony... that crack you made about cybernetic eyes. Is that possible?" Tony'd made enough other wonders, after all.

"Hm. Maybe. Sort of a prosthesis... I'd have to talk to Banner, get someone with a strong biology background on board. Neurobiology, too." Liquid poured. "But hey! You'll get better. You don't really want prosthetic eyes if you can avoid it."

"No, no, of course not," Clint said hurriedly. "That would be, just... just silly."

"Hm." Tony sounded like he was drinking.

"I mean, my eyes are better for me than anything fake. Wouldn't know how something fake would work. Might not be able to judge distances at all..." He trailed off, swishing his glass. He kept one finger over the rim to check the level so it didn't spill; a lesson he'd learned after a few spilled drinks.

He couldn't be blind forever. Jesus, there was no such thing as a blind marksman, and what else could he do? "But," he said hesitantly, "if the worst happened... Do you think cybernetics would work?" His heart pounded, waiting for an answer. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He kept his expression calm, mildly interested.

Thor spoke from his other side. "Are you asking me? I don't know."

Clint reacted without thinking, swinging his elbow back--

But Thor caught it, laughing. "Easy, friend. It's just me." He put Clint's elbow down, patting Clint's shoulder and leaving his hand there. It was warmer than most humans, and oddly reassuring. Like a rock in a dark ocean, anchor him in the room.

Clint's heart slowed bit by bit, and he took a sip to cover his lapse. "I was talking to Tony," he said finally.

"Ah. He's... talking with Pepper. Other side of the room."

"Son of a bitch," Clint said in exasperation.

**  
Night

"Hey," Nat said, trying to lighten the mood. "If you go blind, we'll just set you up as the next director. Fury's got one eye: clearly you have him beat."

Clint laughed weakly, leaning toward her on the den's couch and bumping his shoulder against hers. She looked up to see Steve and Thor watching them idly from chairs on either side of the coffee table, Bruce and Tony in collusion in the corner. Pepper had retired for the night: she had to fly to Tokyo in the morning.

"Is that really... appropriate?" Steve asked, judgmental and unsure all at the same time.

Nat silently dared him to chastise her, and in the meantime turned her second-best neutral stare on him. "Yes."

"Totally," Clint added. "If I go blind, screw SHIELD. I'm moving to Toronto and joining Cirque Du Soleil."

"They wouldn't take you," Nat told him. "Your circus background is too common."

"Hey..."

She gave a little smile and, since he couldn't see it, patted his knee.

"Wait," Steve said. He leaned forward, tumbler between his big hands, elbows on his knees. "You have a circus background?"

She could almost feel Clint become uninterested beside her. She left her hand on his knee. "Where else do you learn to shoot a bow and arrow?"

It was a calculated question, playing the odds that a god and a man out of time wouldn't know the answer. It worked: they looked a little confounded and went silent. Thor spoke, leaning toward Steve. "I'm not actually sure what a circus _is_."

"Well," Steve began, and Nat turned back to Clint while the two men spoke.

"You look better shaved," Nat said quietly "How'd you manage it?"

"Darcy."

She smiled again, grip tightening on his knee. "There you go. If you go blind, we'll hire some cute little thing to shave you."

He paused, glass to his mouth. "Just, please, not someone who's going to tell me I'm as hot as Mr. Potato Head."

*****


	6. Part Two: Day 11 & 12

Day Eleven  
Morning

"Hey! Banner!" Tony toggled the intercom, wandering around his apartment naked. Pepper had left already, but he'd given her a memorable send-off first. Or she'd given him an excellent present to remember him by: it depended on who you asked. "You think cybernetic eyes are possible?"

"What?" Bruce answered, sounding like he'd been pulled out of heavy thoughts. "I-- no. Well maybe -- no."

"Hm." Tony drank some of his smoothie and considered options. He twiddled a metal brain-teaser, locking and unlocking it with ease.

"I think," Bruce said with wry amusement, "you'd have better luck creating human sonar."

Tony tipped his head thoughtfully. "Hm."

**  
Afternoon

Thor stood in the elevator, waiting for the doors to open. When they didn't he leaned forward, voice quiet, and asked, "Jarvis? Can you open the doors?"

"Agent Barton has asked that I remain out of his quarters unless summoned," Jarvis said primly. "I am afraid I cannot."

"Well... perhaps you could remind him that I rang," Thor suggested. He was tired of waiting for someone to answer the elevator -- so to speak -- and Tony had scolded him the last time he'd pried the doors open. Apparently they were rather fragile, and expensive to repair.

"Since you requested it, I shall check on Agent Barton and--" Everything stopped for a moment, and the doors opened. "My apologies, sir. Please proceed to the bedroom. I believe he has been possessed by a demon."

Thor strode back, down the hall, through the private rooms, into the bedroom. Clint stood in the center of the floor, blankets and sheets ripped off the bed and flung around, wearing loose pants and no shirt. Sweat dripped down his spine. His head twitched around, sightless eyes sliding along the wall.

"Clint," Thor said, moving carefully now. "It is I. Thor. Your friend." He eased himself across the floor, noting that Clint continued to track him. That was good. That meant the demon hadn't taken away all awareness. "I hadn't seen you yet today, and I thought perhaps you weren't feeling well." He'd been right, obviously.

Clint wore scars across his back, some from bladed weapons -- Thor recognized the look of those well enough -- and a few that must have been puncture wounds. Too small to be from spears; bullets, perhaps? Or knives? Thor himself wore one, where Loki had stabbed him in the final battle.

"Clint, do you hear me? Do you understand--"

Clint whipped around, a feint with his hand, a strike with his leg. Thor caught his ankle and held it, not worried about getting hurt, but concerned that Clint could hurt himself. "Clint--"

Clint jumped, using the leg Thor held -- still in a medical boot -- as a launching point, bringing his other leg up, body twisting around. Thor was forced to let go, to let Clint flip onto his hands and backward rather than just holding onto Clint's leg and aborting the flip, letting him crash into the ground.

But Thor didn't have to let Clint go _far_. Thor strode after him, not bothering to dodge any blows as they landed, getting close enough to pick Clint up and tuck him under one arm. Then he lifted his hand, calling Mjolnir. His floor was near enough: just Natasha between them, and his bedroom was directly above. All the rooms were in the same places.

It took barely a moment for Mjolnir to smash through the levels and slap into his palm, at which point he carried Clint to the bed, put him down and, before Clint could climb back up, set Mjolnir on Clint's chest. "There," Thor said, satisfied as Clint's head hit nothing harder than a mattress, and all the struggling in the world wouldn't move Mjolnir. "Now we wait."

And so saying, he sat down in a nearby armchair and turned on the television.

**  
Evening

Nat's voice cascaded through the hole in Clint's ceiling -- and her floor -- with a rising pitch. "Does someone want to explain why there's a _hole_ in my _bedroom_?"

Clint rubbed his eyes. "No."

Thor spoke, next to him on the bed. "My deepest apologies, Natasha! It was my fault!"

She was muttering in Russian, and the no-longer-soundproof floor under her and above Clint creaked as she stomped around. Drawers slammed, and she left the room.

"Perhaps she will sleep in the guest room," Thor suggested.

"Probably," Clint agreed. His throat was still sore from -- breathing hard, screaming, bellowing, he wasn't sure. In the grip of the nightmare (could he call it that? More nightmare than anything, though he'd been awake at the time) he wasn't sure what he'd done. He'd struggled back to awareness slowly, the voices on the television jarring with what he knew to be true, to find himself pinned beneath Thor's hammer, the god sitting nearby.

Thor had continued on as if this sort of thing happened every day. Maybe in Asgard it did.

Once, Clint had handled nightmares and ugly memories by shooting or running or wearing himself out. By watching TV or watching people or counting cars or finding patterns in the way crowds moved. By seeing the world and knowing he was in it, not locked in his mind in the darkness.

Eleven days, and his vision was no better. Up to six weeks, they said, but somehow he'd thought there'd be a glimmer by now. A gleaming of light at the end of a tunnel. He closed his eyes and saw the last thing he'd seen: reaching for the scepter that haunted his nightmares.

"Clint." Thor spoke the single word gently. It pulled Clint back to himself.

He propped one foot up, elbow on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah."

"I... How can I help?"

He laughed, but it didn't sound humorous. "You can't. No one can. That's the thing. I can't see, and if the best doctors can't fix it, then your hammer -- miolmeer?"

"Mjolnir."

"Whatever. Your hammer and Stark's brains and all of Nat's cunning aren't going to do anything about it, either."

Thor was quiet. The studio audience laughed at something inane. "Perhaps I can," Thor said. "Well -- not your eyesight. But... come with me." The bed bounced as he stood.

Clint let his head thump against the wall. "I'm really not in the mood, Thor."

"I think I can put you in the mood."

Clint lifted one eyebrow at the double entrendre, but Thor seemed oblivious. Clint pushed up to his feet, holding a hand out until Thor put his arm under it, sliding up bare skin (hard muscles, warmer than human) to a soft T-shirt sleeve, and onto his shoulder.

When Thor walked, Clint followed easily. He knew his apartment well enough now to angle around the doorway, step aside when they drew close to furniture, mark their progress as they went out to the elevator.

They stood in silence while the elevator went up. Clint counted heartbeats, matching them to the number of floors traveled, and kept his surprise and confusion to himself when it opened above the community level.

The air was crisp when they stepped out. "Tony has made the landing pad available to me," Thor said as he walked. "So I may come and go from Asgard."

Clint followed cautiously, with no idea how large the landing pad actually was. It would be a bad end to the day to fall off the edge.

"Have you ever flown, Clint?"

"Sure. Yeah. Who hasn't?"

Thor chuckled. "Not in a plane. In the air."

Clint frowned. "You're not making much sense."

Thor sounded utterly satisfied with himself. A dull thrumming began, pulsing through Clint's bones, and he thought of the bull roarers he'd seen on TV. "Hold on, then," Thor said, and much to Clint's surprise, wrapped an arm around Clint's waist.

"Thor," he began, tucked snug against the god's side and feeling oddly like luggage, "what--"

And then muscles bunched, and Thor leaped.

And they flew.

**  
Night

Nat watched Thor and Clint, who was in better spirits than she'd seen him in days, with a suspicious eye. Clint's cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and he hadn't had anything to drink. He and Thor were laughing over something -- she didn't know what, but Clint was in stitches.

She didn't trust it.

"Custard?"

Nat glanced sharply over to look at Bruce, who was holding out a little glass dish full of a pale custard, and looking hopeful. She looked at the delicate bowl, then up at him, and said nothing.

His smile faltered. "I just... Clint mentioned you liked custard, and I had some, so..." His hand fell to his thigh. He'd sat down next to her, cockeyed on the couch. "Look. Natasha." He glanced at her, as if checking to make sure she was all right with him saying her name. "We got off to a rough start, and I was just trying to make things better. It's not creepy. I brought custard for everyone."

She wanted to keep a straight face. To stare him down so he'd stop trying to make things better. She'd have succeeded too, if he hadn't gestured to the platter behind him, which was filled with little glass bowls of custard.

She almost, _almost_ , smothered her smile and the half chuckle that huffed its way out of her chest. "Bruce--"

"Don't-- don't say no." He looked startled, pulling away from her slightly as if aware his words could be taken wrong. "I mean, of course, you can say no if you don't like custard, or if you really want me to -- to stop, I will. But if you just kind of don't care, maybe you could... let me try?" He gave a wincing smile.

"Hey!" Tony called triumphantly. "Custard!" He scooped up a bowl and dug in, spoon and bowl both small in his broad hands. "Mmm," he mumbled through a full mouth. "That's good. Thanks, big green."

The look Bruce shot him was full of fond exasperation.

"What?" Tony walked backwards, hands spread. "Better than Green Giant, King of Peas." He raised his spoon like a torch and his voice rang out, "I am the Green Giant! Peas for all mankind!" He'd reached the bar, where Thor and Clint sat, and rapped Thor on the shoulder. "Except you, big man. God. Demi-god. I guess you'll have to find your own peas."

Thor looked confused. "I don't--"

Steve came in, his pants slightly too high -- as they always were -- and his bomber jacket on. "Hey! Pudding!"

"Custard," Bruce corrected swiftly. "It's slightly different. Different texture, for one..."

Steve picked up a bowl, nodding and clearly not caring.

With a little upward twitch at the corner of her mouth, Nat took the bowl of custard from Bruce, the one he'd continued to hold out all this time. He looked at her in surprise. "Thanks," she said, taking the spoon and settling back into the couch, one leg curled up underneath her.

His own smile flirted uncertainly around his face, touching eyes and lips before settling. "You're welcome."

Clint came over, his steps a little hesitant, one hand out while the other held his drink. He looked drunk, though she knew he wasn't. When he found the armchair he sat quickly.

Thor followed him, looking pleased and amused all at once.

"Nat?"

"Here. Bruce is beside me," she said, and watched him turn, tracking people as if he were a blood hound who could sniff them out.

He turned back to her, eyes weirdly unfocused and pupils huge, before he spoke. "Thor took me flying today. _Flying_."

"Wow," she said mildly.

"No, flying," he said again, a grin splitting his face. Thor began to laugh.

"Okay, I got it," Nat said, amusement tinging her voice. "You were flying. In the air. You still owe me a new floor."

Clint began to laugh again, sitting back this time, one hand covering his face. "Yeah, because he yanked Molneer--"

"Mjolnir," Thor corrected, but he was still smiling.

"--through it."

Thor shrugged. "It worked, did it not?"

"Fuckin'..." Clint shook his head, leaning back on the chair.

"You okay?" Nat asked him quietly. He was... too happy. Too giddy.

"Sure. Yeah. Tony's gonna make me cybernetic eyes. Thor takes me flying and pins me down when I freak out. Darcy shaves me. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

The room settled into quiet. Tony spoke first. "Not sure cybernetic eyes would really work, Katniss."

The whole room looked at him, confused.

"What-- you can't-- don't tell me you don't know who Katniss--" He glared at Clint, pointing his spoon at the blind archer. "You. _You_ know who Katniss is. You saw a movie about a fifteen-year-old girl, admit it."

Clint's mouth twitched. "It was a good movie."

"See?" Tony said. "The rest of you -- I just bet you missed it. Bunch of pop-culture ignoramis." He sipped. "Cybernetic eyes are a bad idea."

"I thought cybernetic eyes were the future. X-ray." Clint didn't move as he spoke, staring at but not seeing the ceiling.

"Nah. Gimme a year. Maybe two. By then, you'll have your own vision back."

The room was distinctly silent. Clint wasn't smiling any more. "Yeah," he said at last.

"Or," Tony continued, "you'll learn to shoot by sound. We could set that up. Hey -- yeah. We could set that up. I built in an archery range that's just going to waste. JARVIS, we could set that up, right? Wouldn't take too long. Some little speakers, put them on motors, that would be easy. It's a plan."

Nat leaned forward, hand on Clint's knee. "Want to go to bed?"

He dragged himself up. "Yeah. No -- Nat, stay here. I can find my own way."

"Are you sure--" Thor began, but Clint waved at him.

"I'm blind, not spatially unaware and helpless. I'll find my own way," Clint said, testy now. They were quiet as he walked out the door.

**  
Day Twelve  
The Wee Hours of the Morning

Steve tipped his head, listening. There was pounding above him, traveling down the elevator shaft. Given the floors were soundproofed, the elevator shaft was the only way for sound to travel -- and even then, the banging had to be loud to make it. Curious, he pushed the button for the community level floor.

He knew before the doors opened he needed to keep traveling upward. He pushed the next button.

It was a few more floors before the doors opened and the sounds of construction reached him, loud and clear. He stepped out into a room that had once, clearly, been filled with walls and blockades. Now most of those walls had been torn down, leaving raw strips where they'd attached to the framework, and piles of rubble. Nets and ropes still hung off the sides, random ledges sticking out high above, pillars toppled and leaning against one another. It looked, he thought, like a monkey's play gym.

Tony began cursing.

Steve followed the words into the room, around a few still standing walls, over rubble, to the man in the back who was hunched over a sparking, spitting piece of machinery.

"Tony?"

Tony looked up. He was wearing some kind of goggles, and the arc reactor that kept his heart safe was plugged into more tools. "What?"

"What are you doing?" Steve looked around again, trying to make heads or tails of it.

"The archery. This is _the_ archery." Tony stood, gesturing grandly. "Couldn't just have something average, could I? This was the world's best archery for the world's best archer. Except now he's blind so, well, audible archery. Had to take down some of the walls -- maybe that one and that one, too -- until he gets better, but y'know, it's a start. Can't be too hard, can't be too easy. We'll have to change it once he tries it out, but..."

As if an afterthought, Tony's gaze came back and landed on Steve. "What are you doing up?"

"Super soldier," Steve said idly, looking around and trying to see the room with Tony's gaze. He couldn't. He could plan out how to hold it from an enemy attack, sure, but change it to something impossible? How did an archer shoot without seeing? "Don't need much sleep."

"Oh. Good. Here, move that pillar, will you? Just don't let it fall on you." Tony turned away, a clear dismissal, his mind already amid the hundreds of bits and pieces of machinery scattered on the table before him.

Steve hesitated, then walked over to the pillar, set his shoulder against it, and began to push. Maybe he couldn't see what Tony saw, but he could still help bring it to fruition.

**  
Early Afternoon

Somehow, it was always Pepper who noticed the important things. She was in the elevator when the doors opened for Clint, a fact he'd have missed entirely if she hadn't said, "Hey, you got the boot off!"

Clint leaped back into his entryway, nearly crashing against the little table that sat along one wall. "Jesus Christ!" he bellowed, glad he'd managed to keep from smashing her against the wall and breaking her nose. "Jarvis! You're supposed to warn a guy!"

"Apologies, Agent Barton."

Pepper laughed. She sounded... tired. "Hang on, let me move my suitcase..."

"You have a suitcase?"

"Just got in." The way the words stretched, he suspected she was yawning. "Ugh, Tokyo was a disaster. Tony had promised them some-- well, never mind. It doesn't matter now; he didn't even remember it, which is typical Tony..."

Clint edged his way into the elevator, wary of the suitcase.

"But you! You got your boot off!"

"Yeah, this morning." His leg still felt light without it. He wiggled his foot. "Thought I'd wander around and get used to it again."

She sounded amused as the doors closed. "Well, have fun with that."

He turned toward her, searching the darkness for... for...

He really had no idea what Pepper looked like. "How are you always the first person to notice these things?"

He could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm good with details."

Clint nodded. "I guess so."

**  
Mid-Afternoon

Nat paused, hand hovering over the elevator buttons. Reluctantly, she pushed the intercom.

"Banner," he answered, sounding only half aware.

She licked her lips, waiting almost too long. Then, "I'm going running."

"What? I-- oh. Oh! Let me just get my shoes. Meet you in the lobby?"

Her expression twitched, then stilled. She really wasn't sure why she was doing this. "Yeah." But she was.

"Great! Be right there!"

**  
Still Afternoon

"That," Thor said, with such energy in his voice that Clint froze, "is a brilliant shirt."

Clint patted at his chest as if he could suss it out by touch. "Why? What's it say?"

"It's me! And it says 'It's Hammer Time.'"

Clint began to laugh.

**  
Late Afternoon

Banner hadn't said he did _parkour_ , just that he ran. Nat bent double in the shower, muscles quivering, and told herself that next time, running him into the ground wouldn't become a silent challenge.

**  
Early Evening

When Pepper rose from her nap, there was still no sign of Tony. She stretched, looking out at the view through the big windows as they shimmered into one-way glass. Tony liked to walk around naked, and liked it when Pepper walked around naked (or in her slip, since she almost never walked around naked), but he'd been happy to make sure the world couldn't see.

She changed into proper clothes, buttoning a green shirt over a pair of raggedy, comfortable shorts. "JARVIS? Where's Tony?" She expected he'd be on one of the R&D levels -- likely the one he kept reserved for himself -- and was surprised when JARVIS answered with, "In the archery range, Ms Potts. He has been there all night."

She couldn't quite imagine him with the patience to take up a new skill, especially one as time-consuming to master as archery. With some trepidation she made her way down to the archery range, the elevator doors opening to the sounds of men's voices.

"Unscrew that panel and that panel, and I'll get to them in a minute," Tony said briskly.

"All right." Steve's voice. Interesting. Pepper hadn't thought they got along. She threaded her way around rubble and half-walls, finally coming on the two men in the far back of the floor. Steve handled a mechanical screw driver with quick precision, taking metal panels off the wall. Tony was ten feet farther down, wires and cords spilling out from where a panel had already been removed. He was halfway in the wall, yanking at something.

They were both coated with dust and debris, and Tony had a long scratch down one arm, beaded with dried blood.

"Hey, boys," Pepper said.

Steve turned, setting the screwdriver down and wiping at his brow with his forearm. "Pepper."

It had taken her two weeks to get him to call her anything but Miss Potts. She gave him a winning smile, but continued walking over to Tony.

He pulled out of the hole in the wall, sitting on his heels with his knees on the floor. "When did you get back?"

She reached him, and he wrapped one arm around her and pulled her down into his lap. Pepper eeped, then laughed, sliding her hands to the nape of his neck, playing with the soft hairs there.

Steve, she saw out of the corner of her eye, picked up his screwdriver and headed to another part of the floor, a wall between them. Always the epitome of good manners, that one.

"I got back a few hours ago," Pepper said. "And for the record, the fact that you didn't know is--"

"Really hot."

"--no."

"Shows I'm invested in my work, and don't mind a woman who has her own life." Tony grinned. His eyes sparkled, happy to see her, but with something more. An edge he only got when he was in the grip of an idea, and had to get it all out.

"No," Pepper said again, trying hard to suppress her smile and losing. "Have you eaten today?"

He glanced around as if food might magically appear. "Probably. I think so." He tightened his grip on her back and stood, lifting her with him and setting her on her feet without releasing her. "I'm -- we're -- making an audible archery. It'll be great. Some drones, some stationary mannequins, some moving targets. I think I can make a couple of robots that will actually act as adversaries. And of course, objects. Things to hide behind, that sort of deal." He walked forward, letting her go so he could gesture. "We'll start with some basics, some walls and pillars, but with some sliding floor pieces. I figure once Clint is comfortable with one layout, he'll want a new one, so sliding panels on the floor should make that easy. Have to come up with something more complex for later--"

Pepper wandered to the nearest standing wall and peered around, catching sight of Steve on the other side. "You're part of this?"

Steve smiled at her, open and quietly excited. "More the drudge, I think. But it's a good idea." Blue eyes flicked toward Tony, shuttering slightly. "I wouldn't have... thought of it."

Pepper wondered what he'd been about to say. Probably wasn't something complimentary. She gave him a quick smile, appreciating that he held his poor opinion to himself, but understanding why he had it. Most people had a poor opinion of Tony.

But most people wouldn't gut and re-build an archery with state of the art tech for a temporarily blind... she wondered if Clint was a friend, or still an acquaintance.

"If you two would like some privacy," Steve offered, "I could head out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, to the elevator.

"That's okay," Pepper said, attention drawn back to Steve.

He looked a little torn, then admitted, "I have... really good hearing." In other words, she guessed, he was going to hear them no matter how far away on this floor he was, or how quietly they talked.

She laughed. "It's really okay." A glance at Tony showed him standing by the schematics, flicking images made of light to one side or another. "We're not going to be saying anything you can't hear, and I'll be leaving you two to your work momentarily."

Steve nodded and started taking panels off the wall again.

Pepper turned back to Tony, catching his attention only when she wrapped one arm around his waist. "You seem like you're enjoying having the Avengers here."

He gave a quick grin. "It's nice to have people around who aren't, you know, paid to be around."

She ran her hand down his spine, wondering if he knew how lonely that sounded. He was an extrovert, she told herself firmly. It wasn't that he didn't have friends, it was just that he always wanted more.

She couldn't, however, think of a single non-employee beyond Rhodey who seemed to actually care for him, rather than sticking close so they could bask in reflected stardom.

He looked at her then, giving her a quick peck on the lips. "Like you." He paused then, with a wicked cast to his features added, "Without the kinky sex."

"You heard that Steve can hear us, didn't you?" she said dryly.

His eyes sparkled. "Remember that time you--"

"Enough." Pepper laughed, turning away and heading toward the elevator. She pushed the button and, waiting, glanced at Steve. "He's just trying to get to you."

"I know," Steve answered distractedly. "And someday I'll take away his toys and put him in time out until he apologizes."

Pepper laughed. The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, pushing the button to head back to the community floor. The chef would be here by now, and she wanted to know what was for dinner. As the doors closed, she could hear Tony and Steve bantering, and was relieved to know they were on easier terms with each other.

A smile touched the corner of her mouth. It was good for Tony to have people around. People who were there by choice rather than, as he'd said, because they were paid. Or because he'd built them. "JARVIS," Pepper said, "Please set a reminder for me to bring them food, if they don't come to dinner." She didn't know how single-minded Steve got, but Tony had a way of sweeping people up with him.

"Indeed, Ms Potts," JARVIS said politely.

**  
Evening

Nat paused in the door way and glanced around at the dining room, marking the faces who were there -- Clint, Thor, Pepper, Bruce -- and those that were missing -- Tony and Steve. "Where are the others?" she asked, stepping forward.

Pepper smiled at her tiredly, one bare foot hooked over the other, legs stretched out under the table. "They're doing something with the archery range. Dismantling it at the moment, I think."

Nat's gaze flicked to Clint, who was studiously feeling out the placing of his utensils. Tension snaked through his shoulders and spine, but he was pretending otherwise.

"That's good," he said after a minute. "Might as well put it to use."

"Oh," Pepper said, as if just realizing her mistake. "He does this all the time. If it has electronics, he'll dismantle it to make some bigger, better version. I'm sure he'll be done soon."

Clint nodded politely.

**  
Night

Steve juggled plates and sandwiches while trying to push the elevator button, waited for it to go up to the archery, and then stepped out.

Tony spoke even before Steve could see him, shouting over pounding music. "I think I can make the AI's self-learning, so they'll keep up with Barton. In fact, if I just hook them up to JARVIS--"

"Jarvis!" Steve shouted, cringing. "Turn the volume down!" The music level dropped suddenly. Steve relaxed. "Have you eaten?"

"What? No." Tony swept the desktop clear with an arm, mechanics and electronics scattering across the floor. He took both plates from Steve and set them down.

"Didn't think so. We need to eat."

"Yeah, fine." Tony was clearly not thinking about that, though. His eyes were distant and, if Steve were truthful, slightly manic. Maybe that was the genius at work, but it couldn't be healthy.

"You've been in here for almost twenty-four hours, now," Steve pointed out. He didn't mention that they both had; he, at least, had napped. Plus he had the super soldier serum working in his favor: Tony only had a slight edge of insanity.

"What? Oh. That's fine." He looked around, hands on his hips, gaze stuttering over the crease of wall and ceiling. "I need another power source. There." He pointed. "So if he figures out how to take out the primary power source--"

"Eat something, Tony." Steve picked up one of the sandwiches and put it in Tony's hand. Tony took a bite without seeming to notice, and kept talking.

With a shake of his head, Steve glanced over the hastily erected plans. It was amazing, what computers could do: these plans were in 3D, hovering in the air. He even was beginning to understand some of what Tony said.

This was going to be a fantastic blind archery range, if it worked like Tony thought it would. If Clint could adapt like Tony hoped. He picked up the blast mask and went back to welding together human-ish robots that would work as moving, speaking targets.

*****


	7. Part Two: Day 13 (PG-13)

Day 13

Day Thirteen  
Wee Hours of the Morning

The voice was smooth, soothing, feeding a part of his soul he couldn't satiate any other way. "Tell me more."

Clint checked his bow, going over every inch of it with a fine-toothed comb. It was night, late. The mercenaries he'd hired were sleeping. Dr. Selvig was still with the device. He and Loki sat on the warehouse steps. There was too much to do to sleep.

First of all, telling Loki more. "What do you want to know?"

Loki paused, and Clint knew the god was reviewing the list of names Clint had given him, the people to watch for, those who would be most interested in stopping him. Most able to do it. They'd already talked about Fury, about Coulson, about the half dozen other sharpshooters that just weren't as good as Clint, but might be good enough.

"Tell me about Romanoff."

Sliding down the bow string, checking for wear, his hands faltered.

Loki sat forward.

Clint undid the string. Too much wear. He needed something new. "She wouldn't come after you directly. She's an assassin, but she's also a spy. She would... They'd send her to make you talk." He rubbed his forehead, dragging a nail along the skin. If she just _understood_ , she'd come over to the right side. What Loki was doing, it was--

It was--

It was perfect. "I brought her to SHIELD," he said, looking at Loki. Green eyes, black hair, alabaster skin. Loki was too close to focus on easily. "I think I could bring her to our side. If you let me--"

"No." Loki sat back. "We don't need her. She wouldn't understand. A pity that she picked the wrong side, but..."

Clint closed his eyes, firmed his heart, and nodded. She'd picked the wrong side before. If he had to kill her to succeed, he would. The world was at stake.

And then he was in his room as a child, listening to his father yell. Hiding under the bed because it was the safest place to be, while his older brother yelled back. Flesh hit flesh. Clint flinched, closing his eyes. He couldn't stop them. He couldn't do anything about it. So he pushed himself to the far corner, into the darkness.

A weapon touched his fingers. He grasped it, pulled it out, discovered a bow. Stepped from the hall into the living room, where his brother was punching his father. His father staggered, tried a wild haymaker, and the two of them fell into the cold fireplace screaming and enraged.

He fit an arrow to the string, pulled back, aimed, and shot.

His father grabbed it inches before it hit. Looked at him. Smirked.

The bow was gone, and Loki was striding toward him, the scepter glowing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He tried to back up, tripped over cables snaking across the warehouse floor, and the scepter lowered. He went to grab it, but his arms wouldn't move, and it burned through his mind, searing out every last thing he needed to know and hissing through his ears.

It brought darkness to shroud him. Something weighed down his arms, and he struggled uselessly. He could still hear Loki in his mind, slithering through his thoughts, "Tell me more."

He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he couldn't--

He fell. Slammed hard against the floor, one arm suddenly free, and clawed his way out of the mess that tangled him, the grasping, twisting cloth. Carpet under his hands, now, and he smashed his hand into _something_. Pain blasted up to his elbow and he cried out, yanking it close before anything else hurt.

Darkness, darkness, no matter how wide he opened his eyes, and he knew this wasn't a nightmare. He'd moved into the guest room, the hole in his room not yet fixed, and he didn't know where the furniture was.

No. He knew. He knew, damn it.

His breath rattled and echoed, shaking. His eyes were wet when he blinked. He'd hit the nightstand. And here-- here, if he could crawl this way, kicking off the rest of the grasping sheets and blankets, there was a corner--

Yes. He shoved himself into it, told himself the whispering voice, "Tell me more," was just in his head. It was in his _head_ , that was all, couldn't possibly be behind him because the wall was behind him. Loki wasn't here. Loki wasn't here, his father wasn't here, it was a nightmare a God awful nightmare but no worse than he'd had before.

If he could turn on a blasted light, see the empty room, be awake and aware and shake off the lingering traces--

But he couldn't do that. Clint pulled his knees up, leaned his forehead across his arm on top of them, and tried to steady his breathing. It would be okay. (Nothing was okay.) He just needed to calm down. (It wouldn't make him see.) Just a little time. (Another four weeks, the doctor said, before they'd know.)

It was impossible. ("You'll be able to see some light and dark. I wouldn't count on much beyond that.")

He caught a cry because he wasn't going to cry. He hadn't cried since he'd been sixteen, and he sure as shit wasn't going to start because he'd had a _bad dream_.

"Tell me more."

He had a lifetime of bad dreams and darkness to look forward to.

**  
Morning

The community level was dim as Bruce padded through, yawning hugely. He needed some breakfast to wake up, and then maybe--

"Well met, Bruce!"

He leaped sideways as a shape loomed out of the dark, booming at him. With a hand to his chest, he took several deep breaths, trying to keep from tripping the monster. "Don't _startle_ me," he snapped.

Thor's smile faded. His head dipped, hair swinging down. "Ah. Sorry."

Bruce's heart rate was slowing. Slowing, slowing, easing down to safer levels. He straightened up, glancing at Thor. "Not that I don't like having you here, but why _are_ you in the Avengers Tower?" Tony had to be over the moon to have everyone here. He'd been talking about getting them all here for months.

Thor grinned brightly. "We're opening diplomatic relations with this realm's lords, and I had no other place to stay. After all, Tony made a landing pad."

Bruce nodded slowly. Politics. That figured. Though if he needed someone to create diplomatic relations, he wasn't sure Thor was the man -- or god -- he'd pick to do it. "Well," Bruce said slowly. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Indeed," Thor said with some vehemence. "I ran out of food in my larder, and this realm's appliances are beyond me."

That was true. Thor had trouble with the toaster. Bruce gestured, and Thor fell in behind.

**  
Late Morning

"Hey, Clint!" Darcy called, tossing her bag and winter coat on the entryway table and continuing into the giant apartment. Outside it was drizzling, but in the Tower it was warm enough to wear T-shirts.

"In here, Darce."

She followed the voice around through the living room -- which was huge, and had its own fireplace -- and to the guest bedroom. Someday, she wanted a house the size of this apartment. Clint was inside the bedroom, washed and dressed in a pair of jeans and another Avengers T-shirt.

"Awww," she laughed. "That's cute."

"Oh?" He petted his own chest. "What is it?"

"It's a cartoon picture of you, and it says, 'Hawkward.' Cartoon-you looks all sheepish."

From the look on his face, he apparently didn't think it was as cute as she thought. "Hawkward?"

"You know the papers are calling you Hawkeye, right?"

He looked unimpressed. Maybe it was the whole blind thing. "Right."

"And you shaved yourself!" Though he was all pale, with dark circles under his eyes. That wasn't uncommon for him, though. He needed to get more sleep. Darcy was tactful enough not to say so.

"Yeah, well, hard to cut yourself with an electric razor." He scratched at stubble. "Hard to get a close shave, either..."

"Soon you won't even need me anymore." That came out a little more distressed than she'd meant it to.

"Hey, I'll never be able to drive, so I'll always need you." He smiled, but something about it looked a little... fake. "And I need your help now, too." He turned toward the dresser, a built-in shelving and drawer unit that covered one wall. It had a TV. "I need to figure out how to arrange my clothes so I can find things I want, and not just trust to chance."

"Like... by color?" Darcy suggested, walking up to stand beside him.

"Yeah. By color would do." He took a breath, a bigger one than she really thought was necessary. The lines of his face were hard. Or maybe haggard. Yeah, haggard was a better word. "And tomorrow I want to go shopping. I'm going to be here a while, so I might as well get the things I'd use at home. Which means that needs to be arranged so I can find it all by touch, too."

This was excellent. She really was going to have a job for a while! "Okay," Darcy said cheerfully. "In that case, let's get crackin'!"

**  
Afternoon

Clint was sitting, alone, at the bar when Nat reached the community level. She paused in the doorway, listening to him speak.

"I bet you have a lovely singing voice," he said to no one in particular.

"Thank you, sir," JARVIS answered, "but I do not sing."

Clint stretched back along the counter, face tipped upward, drink in one hand. "Well, maybe you should start. I could take you to karaoke some time." His smile was slow and lazy. "I could buy you... whatever it is that AIs like."

"That would be a new experience for me. Karaoke is not something Mr. Stark does."

Nat backed away slowly, shaking her head as she walked down the hall. Surely, _surely_ , Clint wasn't flirting with the AI. He really needed to get out more.

**  
Later Afternoon

Bruce wrapped his hands around the paper cup of herbal tea (he'd had to give up caffeine long ago), letting the heat soak into his bones. The people walking by on the sidewalk, just outside the windows of the little coffeehouse, had faded to the background. The two cops who came in and took a table in the back, though, faces rimmed with exhaustion as they spoke quietly, still had his attention.

They weren't looking for him. They weren't even looking _at_ him. He dragged his focus back to the man he was here to talk to.

"I suppose," Fury said, looking at him thoughtfully, "if we hired you as a contractor to SHIELD, I might be able to release it into your care."

Being hired as a consultant meant his name on a lot of legal paperwork. Meant they could track him easily. "What about hiring Tony as a consultant--" he began, but stopped when Fury raised his eyebrows.

"That paperwork," Fury said neutrally, "would not go through."

"Tony's the leading person in--"

"Stark's name isn't exactly synonymous with reliability or trustworthiness," Fury interrupted.

Bruce winced. He had to give Fury that.

"Having it in the building with Stark will raise some red flags. Giving it to him is out of the question. But you -- you're known for your work. The Council likes you. And if Captain Rogers were willing, I could sign him on as security..." Fury looked thoughtful, then nodded once. "The bureaucrats would like that."

"Is it here? In the city?" Bruce asked, buying himself time while he considered having his name tied to anything.

Fury sipped his coffee. "Back under lock and key." He waited a beat, then leaned forward, weight on his elbows. "This is the deal, Doctor. You can take possession of it to study it, or you can't. SHIELD isn't coming after you, either way."

He couldn't live his life in hiding. Not if he wanted to do anything great. Once, that had been all he'd wanted. Now he mostly wanted to keep from getting cranky and leveling Manhattan.

But the old tickle was back, there in his chest. It was just such a discovery... "All right. Hire me on as a consultant."

"Done." Fury leaned back. He looked pleased, as if he'd called Bruce instead of the other way around. "It'll be in the building as soon as Captain Rogers agrees."

**  
Still Afternoon

Tony aligned pipes to the top of the robot head and, holding them in place, turned to wait for Steve's reaction.

Steve was filthy, sweaty and dusty from tearing down walls and cleaning out rubble. Most of the rubble was in the freight elevator now; as Tony watched Steve dropped the last large beam, making the whole thing shake, hit the button to take the rubble to the crews on the bottom level, and stepped out as the doors closed. _Finally_ he turned to look. Blue eyes skimmed Tony, who was grinning, and looked quizzical.

"Oh, come on." Tony took the pipes down, appalled that Steve didn't get it. "Think Asgardian trickster god." He held the pipes back up.

"The horns on Loki's helmet? Don't you think that's... I don't know... a little macabre?"

"You can't tell me Clint doesn't want a piece of the guy, after Loki shoved his hand up Clint's ass."

"He-- _what_?" Steve looked truly horrified.

Tony tossed the pipes aside. "Made him a puppet. Come on, old man, keep up."

The horror on Steve's face melted into relief, and just a touch of disgust at Tony. Tony didn't care. They'd been working together for two days now, and horror, relief, and disgust Tony knew how to deal with. Every so often he caught a flash of grudging respect, and _that_ was terrifying.

From the bomber jacket heaped in the corner, a phone started to ring.

Steve ignored it. "He wouldn't be able to see he was shooting at a Loki-facsimile anyway."

"So we _tell him_. That's yours." The ringing was still going on.

"What?"

"The modern age is lost on you, Beaver."

"Who's--"

"After your time. Way before mine. Get the phone."

"The-- _oh_." Steve managed to get there, get it out, and flip it open before it stopped ringing. Tony had programmed it to ring ten times before it went to voice mail; he'd gotten tired of walking Steve through how to check his voice mail for yet another missed call. "Steve Rogers."

Tony shook his head. They'd given Steve a flip phone simply because anything touch-related was beyond him. He'd broken three of them after opening a dozen programs and somehow crashing his phones, anyway. He thought the flip phone was a wonder.

Tony busied himself, and a few minutes later Steve came over, looking a little hesitant. "That was Director Fury with a mission," he said, words slow.

Tony straightened. "For the Avengers?"

"For me."

Not nearly so fun.

"I'm being assigned a protection detail for a weapon. Their scientists haven't figured out how it works, and I guess Bruce convinced Fury that he might be able to..."

"The point?" Tony was rapidly running out of patience.

"They're sending Loki's scepter over."

Tony came alert. _That_ could be fun.

**  
Evening

"Because I don't _want_ to go to a bar," Clint said, frustration coloring his words.

"The doctors said alcohol won't hurt, as long as you're not going on benders every night," Nat argued with him. He could imagine her leaning close, looking at him with that sincere intensity she got when she worked marks over.

"There'll be people and noise and--"

"That's kind of the point," she laughed. "We'll get the others to go, too. You'll be around friends. We'll have your back."

It stung that she knew what the problem was. Clint took a deep breath. If he was going to be blind, he had to get used to it.

But-- not right now. Not starting with crowds and alcohol and stupid drunken fools. Going to a drug store in the morning was a big enough step. "Nat--"

Tony's voice rang through the community level, his boots heavy on the floor. "Bruce gets me the _best_ toys!"

"It's not a toy," Bruce said, laughing.

"It's _really_ not a toy, Stark." That was Steve, sounding irritated.

The gang marched into the living room, and something massive banged down across the table. Clint twisted to follow it, though it didn't do him any good since he couldn't _see_ it.

"It's a crate," Nat murmured. "Tony and Bruce are standing by the coffee table, Steve's just beyond. Thor's walking in, and Pepper's coming down the hall."

"What is it?" Pepper called.

Something cracked. Clint flinched and tensed.

"Sorry," Nat murmured. "Tony has a crowbar. Should've warned you."

Something else clattered -- the top off the crate, Clint guessed.

"Oh my God," Pepper said. "Is that--"

"Yeah." Tony sounded gleeful.

" _What_?" Clint snapped, irritated.

Thor spoke. "Loki's scepter."

Clint could feel eyes on him. How many, he didn't know. He processed the words, felt the chill that swept through him. He turned toward Nat. "Okay," he said. "Let's go get drunk."

**  
Evening

Tony clapped Steve's shoulder hard enough that even Steve noticed it. Steve glanced down at him. Tony was drunk. He'd been drunk for a little while, actually.

"I never understood why my father was so invested in the super soldier program," Tony said, leaning close. "But I get it now. You are the permanent designated driver."

"We walked here, Tony," Steve pointed out. "Did you just leave Clint there? Alone? Again?"

"He doesn't mind."

"I'm pretty sure he does." Steve pried Tony's hand off his shoulder, clapped it on Bruce -- who was also sober -- and made his way to the booth in the back of the pub where they'd started at. Everyone had left now, except Clint, who was talking with great sincerity to the empty place across from him.

"--a bar like this in Atlanta, only there was more girls. I think. Are there girls here? Does blindness drive chicks away or help with pity sex? All sex is good, so--"

"He left, Clint," Steve said, wondering when, exactly, he'd become the babysitter.

Clint's face swiveled around, and he seemed to stare at Steve's belt buckle. "Son of a bitch."

"Yeah, I know."

"Did you want your coat back?"

Clint hadn't had one -- Nat had bought him only T-shirts, and those weren't nearly warm enough for the three block stroll in the crisp fall evening. "You already gave it back."

"Oh. Right." Clint looked into his pint, then looked up, two feet to the right of where Steve stood. "Where is everyone?"

Steve sat down next to Clint, their backs to the wall. "Tony is dancing with Pepper," though there wasn't really room for it, "Bruce is trying to talk to Natasha," which even Steve thought was painful to listen to, "and Thor is--" Resignation hit him. "Buying another round."

"A toast!" Thor cried out, and the whole bar cheered. Thor hadn't quite grasped the concept of buying rounds _just_ for their party, and Tony -- who was paying for it -- didn't seem to care. The bartender had a drink in nearly every hand now, and Thor was walking toward Steve and Clint with three shot glasses carefully balanced. "To our fallen warrior, may he heal, live a long life, die in glorious battle and be surrounded by handmaidens thereafter!"

Steve took his shot and passed the other glass to Clint, who raised it and, amid the cheering, yelled, "To me! I like handmaidens!"

**  
Later Evening

Bruce waited until Clint was distracted, then swapped his pint for water. Steve seemed to be the only one to notice, and Bruce exchanged a rueful smile with him.

"I heard that," Clint said, glowering around before sniffing the water and glowering again. "I'm not that drunk, guys."

"Trust me. For the hangover in the morning," Bruce said. Grudgingly, Clint drank. "How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.

Clint sat up straight, a drunken attempt to look sober. "Great. 'Cept for the whole blind thing. An' the dreams. An' Loki's scepter's in the building, that's kinda freakin' me out."

Bruce winced. "Yeah... Should've warned you about that. Sorry."

Clint continued as if he hadn't heard. "An' I'm in the guest room now 'cause Thor put a hole in my bedroom ceiling, an' you know what a blind marksman's good for?"

"What?" Bruce asked, taking the bait.

"Nothing." Clint laughed. "I've been shootin' arrows since I joined the circus, an' now I'm good for nothing." He laughed through the whole sentence, and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, unsure what to do and looking around for help.

None was forthcoming.

"Wait," Tony said. "Did you just say you joined the circus? When?"

Clint shrugged and drank more water. Bruce put his pint back in front of him. "I was... I dunno. Twelve? 'Leven? Me 'n m' brother." He hit the pint with the backs of his fingers, unaware it was there, then picked it up and drank. "An' lemme tell you, elephants _stink_."

"I'll be damned," Tony said. "You're a real circus freak."

Clint laughed, pointing in Tony's general direction. "Fuck you too, Stark."

"It was a compliment." Tony grinned, too broad, eyes too bright. Bruce glanced around; Thor was only slightly tipsy, and Steve was stone cold sober, but everyone else was three sheets to the wind. Pepper was sitting on Tony's lap, chuckling, and Nat sat on Clint's other side, quietly working her way through a bowl of bar mix, plinking all the wasabi peas into an empty glass.

Steve spoke. "I didn't know people actually... ran away to the circus."

Bruce shrugged. "Me neither."

"Yup," Clint said, rocking with the word. "If the carnies are shady enough not to report runaways to social services, anyway."

Bruce frowned. This was forming a bleaker picture than he'd initially had. Nat looked up, met his eyes, and said clearly, "We should change the subject. He doesn't talk about this."

"I don't?" Clint asked.

Nat bumped him with her shoulder, and he nearly fell into Bruce. Bruce kept them steady.

"I don't," Clint agreed.

Thor stood. "Another round!"

"Yes! An' handmaidens!" Clint cried cheerfully.

**  
Late Evening

Clint's blood hummed under his skin, more alcohol than plasma. Wafts of body scents lingered around him: whatever perfume Pepper wore on his left, Tony's particular odd spice mixed with the tang that Clint thought of as the arc reactor scent, sweat, and dust on his right. Even Nat was there, squished into the corner beyond Tony. Their bodies buffered him as much as the alcohol did, cocooning him in a little safety zone. After he'd braved the floor (and the crowd) to use the toilet just a few moments before, he needed that safety zone. He'd bumped into people despite Bruce's steadying hand, had people bump into him, knocked over a server with a platter, and nearly had a heart attack at the crash.

It was nice to have a safety zone.

"Feeling better?" Pepper asked, leaning into him.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he muttered to his beer.

"I'm asking because you looked like you were going to have a panic attack when that platter crashed."

Clint laughed, mostly because it was true. "Yeah. I almost did." He looked toward Pepper, really focusing, trying to see any little bit of light. Nothing. "I never used to have panic attacks, y'know. Because I could see. An' I knew I wasn't gettin' attacked."

"I can imagine that would make a difference," Pepper agreed.

"An' now..." He lost his train of thought.

"You have bad dreams," Pepper said.

He looked up. "How'd you know?"

"You said so earlier. D'you want to talk about it?"

Tony spoke up from his other side. "He doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to drink!"

The words spilled out, like ale from the spout. "I dream 'bout Loki. An' never seeing again. Know what use a blind marksman is?"

She answered him quietly. "None."

He reeled, hearing it from her mouth. But she was right. He'd said so earlier. "None," he agreed.

"You could do other things."

"No." He shook his head, certain of that. "I ain't got nothing else I can do. Mebbe I could... I could..." He rubbed his forehead. "If I go permanently blind..." He'd said it a million times. Found ridiculous responses to make it easier.

No answer came.

"But you're not going to go permanently blind," Tony said doggedly. "You'll get better."

"No." Clint frowned. He was saying that a lot. "I'm gonna effec'ively be blind. See some light 'n dark, but... when I go permanently blind..." He tried again to come up with a response. None came. He laughed weakly, alcohol buzzing, eyes burning. He rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye, and was stunned to realize it was wet. He wiped off his face, sat up, blinked to clear vision that would never be clear again.

"We'll make it better," Tony said stubbornly. "Don't be upset. We'll make it better. You can be a CEO! I'll give you a business. A shooting school! For the blind! You could teach _classes_ on archery for blind people." He paused, then added, "Insurance might be an issue..."

Clint drank. Then, "I suck as a teacher."

"He does," Nat confirmed.

"An' warriors who don't die warriors don't go to Valhalla with the handmaidens, right, Thor?"

"We'll find a way for you to go out fighting, Clint," Thor assured him.

"Use me to stop a runaway train!" he suggested, choking on a laugh. " _That_ is what blind marksmen are good for!"

Pepper sounded disgusted. "That's just-- you can't-- yuck."

Clint reeled toward her. She smelled quite nice. "You know, I don't actually know what you look like." She'd felt slim, the few times he'd put a hand on her for guidance, and shorter than he was by just a little bit.

Then he pulled away, turning to regard the bar as a whole, opening his eyes wide for a moment as if it might help him see. It didn't. "Actually, I don't really know what most of you look like. I mean, a little, sure. We fought aliens together. But mostly I was focused on the aliens and the fighting and not so much you." He pointed in the direction Thor had been last. "I know he's got surfer hair. An' he's huge." Then Bruce. "An' Banner's got brown hair." He pulled away from Tony to look in that direction. "I know what you look like, 'cause you're always in the fuckin' news."

Tony laughed. "You should do that face touchy thing blind people do. Isn't that what they do? To see?"

"Not sure that would help. I don't translate feeling to vision. 'Sides, people aren't gonna want me pawing their faces all the time."

"You know what you look like, right?" Tony pointed out. "Feel your own face and go off that."

Clint put a hand over his face and felt. Eyes, nose -- he started to laugh. "Ho shit, Darcy said my nose was weird."

"No!" Pepper protested. "You have a lovely nose!"

"I broke it."

"Fell off a trapeze?" Tony asked hopefully.

"A fence." He thought he had a feel for his face. It was his face. He could match bits to the way they felt.

"Okay," Tony said, grabbing his wrist and hauling his hand over. "Now feel my face. 'Cause you know how I look, right? Same thing."

Laughing, Clint felt Tony's face. The scratch of a goatee, his nose--

"Keep your fingers out of my nostrils," Tony said solemnly.

"Sorry!" Clint dropped his hand, leaning back against Pepper, sides hurting because he'd been laughing too much. He'd always been a cheerful drunk.

"Okay, Nat! Natasha! Agent Romanoff! You, from legal! Come here. Clint needs to feel your face."

She oofed and was suddenly where Tony had been, one hand braced on Clint's thigh as if she'd fallen -- or been pulled. "Hi, Clint."

"Hi, Nat," he said, amused. "Can I feel your face?"

"Sure, why not."

He found her hair -- a bunch of curls, a little wiry -- and moved downwards. Small, round nose, full lips, pointed chin. He could imagine it as well as he could imagine his own.

"Okay," Tony said, and she oofed again and was gone, "now Pepper!"

"Uh..." Clint faced her. "I don't have to--"

"Okay, okay, wait, I have to stop laughing," she said. She cleared her throat, made vaguely musical noises, and said, "All right. Now. Don't poke me in the eye."

"I'll try not to," Clint said, hesitantly holding his hand up and moving it toward her until she grabbed his wrist and slapped it against her own cheek.

He started with the hair. Soft hair, done up in some kind of intricate girly thing that he was careful not to mess up. She had a fringe over her forehead, thin eyebrows, smooth skin.

"I have red hair," she told him. "Not as red as Natasha's, though. And freckles. They're the bane of my existence."

"I love them," Tony said over Clint's shoulder.

Clint smiled. Where Nat's nose scooped upward, Pepper's was thin and straight. Her cheekbones were high, her face leaner than Nat's, with a more pronounced jawline and a narrower mouth. Clint's smile came and went as he focused, trying to put together everything he felt into something he could see in his mind's eye. "This is kinda cool," he said after a while, and only then realized their little group had gone silent.

Laughter cascaded around the booth, and he did a mental count: he was pretty sure everyone was there.

"Who's next?" Pepper asked as he pulled his hand away and settled back against Tony. "Bruce! Here, take my seat." Pepper scooted out, and a moment later someone else took her spot.

"Okay," Bruce said, his tone a little amused and a little resigned and a lot like they all belonged in the loony bin. "I guess I'm next."

Male faces, Clint realized, were different than female faces. Rougher, first of all, even when they were clean shaven. Bigger, harder boned, the lips not as soft even on full mouths, like Bruce's. Bruce's hair was coarser, too, though Tony's had been soft. Curls tickled Clint's fingers.

Then it was Steve, whose short hair was a little stiff with some kind of hair goop, whose nose was narrower and jaw was more muscular. "Just like the rest of you," Clint laughed, and then had to explain what he'd been thinking. He could almost _hear_ Steve blushing, pinned under the weight of everyone's examination.

Thor was last. "Oh my God," Clint said, running his fingers through hair that felt more like mink than hair.

"That is me," Thor said, sounding utterly pleased with his own joke.

"Very funny. Seriously, guys, you have to feel this." Someone -- Nat, he thought -- reached past him to do just that.

A moment later Nat said, "That's not human."

"I'm _not_ human," Thor pointed out.

"God," Pepper sighed, "I want Asgardian hair."

Thor smelled different, too. Less like sweat and more like... bow resin. "Good news for men everywhere," Clint announced, trying to keep a straight face. "His stubble is just as rough as Tony's."

"I don't have _stubble_ ," Tony protested.

Thor laughed, and a minute later Clint was half-pinned to the bench as Thor reached past him. "Tony," Thor said, "you do indeed have stubble, and it is indeed rough."

Pepper was saying, "Hang on, hang on, someone get a picture of this--" and then there was the shnit of the fake-shutter on a smart phone. "Oh, that's wonderful."

Then Thor's hand landed on Clint's face, rubbing his cheek. "Your stubble is rougher than Tony's, friend."

Tony piped up, incensed. "It should be! I _condition_ my stubble, okay? An' it's not stubble!"

**  
Night

Clint staggered into the elevator, his feet nearly off the ground as Thor wrapped an arm around him and simply lifted. "Thanks," he said, head lolling back, and back farther, and finally coming to rest on Thor's neck, just under his chin.

"You're welcome," Thor said cheerfully, and reached around Clint to push the button as everyone else piled in.

"Oh my God," Nat groaned. "Too much rum."

"If you say so, Captain Sparrow," Tony practically chirped.

Nat sounded confused. "I-- I don't get that reference."

"I _never_ get his references," Steve said glumly.

Clint smiled, feeling each muscle in his body get a little more relaxed, and more of his weight sag back against Thor. "Captain Jack Sparrow. I get you, man."

"See, my homme here understands me."

"Oh, Tony," Pepper laughed. "Please never say 'homme' again."

The elevator rocked to a halt.

"This is me," Bruce said, and Clint listened to people shuffle around to let him out. Thor rocked, swinging Clint one way and then back upright.

The elevator continued, but stopped a moment later.

"This is you," Thor rumbled in his ear. He could feel the vibrations of Thor's voice against his back.

" _Right_." He didn't move. Too much effort to get his legs under him. But that was all right, because Thor just picked him up so his legs dangled in front of Thor's legs, and started walking.

"I'll see him to bed," Thor said over his shoulder. There was a chorus of "Good nights" and the elevator door closed again. "You're sleeping in the guest room?"

"Uh huh," Clint said. He wondered if he picked his arms up, if he'd slide right out from Thor's grip. He tried. He didn't slide.

"Did you want to walk?"

"Nah." But Thor did set him down a moment later.

"Would you like some water?"

"Yes," Clint said definitely. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all."

He stood there as Thor walked away, working hard to remain upright. A human in the center of nothingness, unsure where he'd been placed in the apartment. He stretched his arms out, but didn't feel anything. Carefully, he slid one foot forward, then the other.

"Did you need something?"

Clint jumped and turned, and the world just kept turning. He staggered to one side, completely off-balance. Thor grabbed his shoulder, stabilizing him, and he grabbed Thor's arms with both of his own. "Where _am_ I?"

"The guest bedroom. Here, walk toward me... there you are. The doorway." Thor took his wrist and pressed something cool into his hand. "Your water."

He drank it all. Thor took the glass, vanished, and a moment later Clint heard the glass click on his nightstand.

"Are you all right?" Thor asked.

Clint scowled. "People keep asking me that."

"They're worried about you. We're your friends, Clint. Will you sleep all right?"

"Pass out, sure." He leaned against the door frame, though, and didn't approach the bed.

"And when your mind is empty, will the demons take over?"

Clint smiled faintly. Flashbacks. "I don't think so. Not tonight."

Thor was quiet for a long while. He sighed gently. "You don't look happy."

Clint made an effort to straighten, to plaster the fake smile he'd gotten so good at on his face. "Better?"

"No, and I hesitate to leave you. Human ways are similar to Asgardian ways sometimes, and completely different other times. If I am wrong, tell me. But when I am low, there is one thing certain to raise my spirits, and my friends will indulge me." He'd walked closer; footsteps quiet on the carpeting, but his voice coming near.

Clint angled his face about where he thought Thor's face was. "All right...?"

A callused hand slid along his jaw, tipping his face up a little farther, fingers stabilizing the back of his head. He knew, drunkenly, what was happening just before it happened, but it was still a surprise when dry lips brushed against his, slanting so their noses didn't bump. It wasn't much more than that, than a body pressing into his, easing him back more fully against the doorframe. Thor didn't deepen it, but kept it light and easy and a minute later pulled back.

Clint could almost feel the question hanging between them. "Most humans," he said slowly, "would not consider gay sex to be soothing."

"Ah. Then I apologize." Thor dropped his hand and started to step back.

"Hey, wait--" Clint protested, and slapped his hand out, hitting Thor's chest just where he thought he would, knotting his hand in Thor's shirt -- a T-shirt, or something else soft -- and pulling forward.

It was impossible to actually pull an Asgarian god forward. The shirt would rip first, or Clint would do exactly what he did, and topple himself off his feet, staggering into Thor. That worked, too. Thor laughed, one arm going around Clint's back, steadying him and pulling him toward the bed.

Clint really hoped they didn't break the bed.

*****


	8. Part Two: Day 13 (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  

Day Thirteen  
Wee Hours of the Morning

The voice was smooth, soothing, feeding a part of his soul he couldn't satiate any other way. "Tell me more."

Clint checked his bow, going over every inch of it with a fine-toothed comb. It was night, late. The mercenaries he'd hired were sleeping. Dr. Selvig was still with the device. He and Loki sat on the warehouse steps. There was too much to do to sleep.

First of all, telling Loki more. "What do you want to know?"

Loki paused, and Clint knew the god was reviewing the list of names Clint had given him, the people to watch for, those who would be most interested in stopping him. Most able to do it. They'd already talked about Fury, about Coulson, about the half dozen other sharpshooters that just weren't as good as Clint, but might be good enough.

"Tell me about Romanoff."

Sliding down the bow string, checking for wear, his hands faltered.

Loki sat forward.

Clint undid the string. Too much wear. He needed something new. "She wouldn't come after you directly. She's an assassin, but she's also a spy. She would... They'd send her to make you talk." He rubbed his forehead, dragging a nail along the skin. If she just _understood_ , she'd come over to the right side. What Loki was doing, it was--

It was--

It was perfect. "I brought her to SHIELD," he said, looking at Loki. Green eyes, black hair, alabaster skin. Loki was too close to focus on easily. "I think I could bring her to our side. If you let me--"

"No." Loki sat back. "We don't need her. She wouldn't understand. A pity that she picked the wrong side, but..."

Clint closed his eyes, firmed his heart, and nodded. She'd picked the wrong side before. If he had to kill her to succeed, he would. The world was at stake.

And then he was in his room as a child, listening to his father yell. Hiding under the bed because it was the safest place to be, while his older brother yelled back. Flesh hit flesh. Clint flinched, closing his eyes. He couldn't stop them. He couldn't do anything about it. So he pushed himself to the far corner, into the darkness.

A weapon touched his fingers. He grasped it, pulled it out, discovered a bow. Stepped from the hall into the living room, where his brother was punching his father. His father staggered, tried a wild haymaker, and the two of them fell into the cold fireplace screaming and enraged.

He fit an arrow to the string, pulled back, aimed, and shot.

His father grabbed it inches before it hit. Looked at him. Smirked.

The bow was gone, and Loki was striding toward him, the scepter glowing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He tried to back up, tripped over cables snaking across the warehouse floor, and the scepter lowered. He went to grab it, but his arms wouldn't move, and it burned through his mind, searing out every last thing he needed to know and hissing through his ears.

It brought darkness to shroud him. Something weighed down his arms, and he struggled uselessly. He could still hear Loki in his mind, slithering through his thoughts, "Tell me more."

He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he couldn't--

He fell. Slammed hard against the floor, one arm suddenly free, and clawed his way out of the mess that tangled him, the grasping, twisting cloth. Carpet under his hands, now, and he smashed his hand into _something_. Pain blasted up to his elbow and he cried out, yanking it close before anything else hurt.

Darkness, darkness, no matter how wide he opened his eyes, and he knew this wasn't a nightmare. He'd moved into the guest room, the hole in his room not yet fixed, and he didn't know where the furniture was.

No. He knew. He knew, damn it.

His breath rattled and echoed, shaking. His eyes were wet when he blinked. He'd hit the nightstand. And here-- here, if he could crawl this way, kicking off the rest of the grasping sheets and blankets, there was a corner--

Yes. He shoved himself into it, told himself the whispering voice, "Tell me more," was just in his head. It was in his _head_ , that was all, couldn't possibly be behind him because the wall was behind him. Loki wasn't here. Loki wasn't here, his father wasn't here, it was a nightmare a God awful nightmare but no worse than he'd had before.

If he could turn on a blasted light, see the empty room, be awake and aware and shake off the lingering traces--

But he couldn't do that. Clint pulled his knees up, leaned his forehead across his arm on top of them, and tried to steady his breathing. It would be okay. (Nothing was okay.) He just needed to calm down. (It wouldn't make him see.) Just a little time. (Another four weeks, the doctor said, before they'd know.)

It was impossible. ("You'll be able to see some light and dark. I wouldn't count on much beyond that.")

He caught a cry because he wasn't going to cry. He hadn't cried since he'd been sixteen, and he sure as shit wasn't going to start because he'd had a _bad dream_.

"Tell me more."

He had a lifetime of bad dreams and darkness to look forward to.

**  
Morning

The community level was dim as Bruce padded through, yawning hugely. He needed some breakfast to wake up, and then maybe--

"Well met, Bruce!"

He leaped sideways as a shape loomed out of the dark, booming at him. With a hand to his chest, he took several deep breaths, trying to keep from tripping the monster. "Don't _startle_ me," he snapped.

Thor's smile faded. His head dipped, hair swinging down. "Ah. Sorry."

Bruce's heart rate was slowing. Slowing, slowing, easing down to safer levels. He straightened up, glancing at Thor. "Not that I don't like having you here, but why _are_ you in the Avengers Tower?" Tony had to be over the moon to have everyone here. He'd been talking about getting them all here for months.

Thor grinned brightly. "We're opening diplomatic relations with this realm's lords, and I had no other place to stay. After all, Tony made a landing pad."

Bruce nodded slowly. Politics. That figured. Though if he needed someone to create diplomatic relations, he wasn't sure Thor was the man -- or god -- he'd pick to do it. "Well," Bruce said slowly. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Indeed," Thor said with some vehemence. "I ran out of food in my larder, and this realm's appliances are beyond me."

That was true. Thor had trouble with the toaster. Bruce gestured, and Thor fell in behind.

**  
Late Morning

"Hey, Clint!" Darcy called, tossing her bag and winter coat on the entryway table and continuing into the giant apartment. Outside it was drizzling, but in the Tower it was warm enough to wear T-shirts.

"In here, Darce."

She followed the voice around through the living room -- which was huge, and had its own fireplace -- and to the guest bedroom. Someday, she wanted a house the size of this apartment. Clint was inside the bedroom, washed and dressed in a pair of jeans and another Avengers T-shirt.

"Awww," she laughed. "That's cute."

"Oh?" He petted his own chest. "What is it?"

"It's a cartoon picture of you, and it says, 'Hawkward.' Cartoon-you looks all sheepish."

From the look on his face, he apparently didn't think it was as cute as she thought. "Hawkward?"

"You know the papers are calling you Hawkeye, right?"

He looked unimpressed. Maybe it was the whole blind thing. "Right."

"And you shaved yourself!" Though he was all pale, with dark circles under his eyes. That wasn't uncommon for him, though. He needed to get more sleep. Darcy was tactful enough not to say so.

"Yeah, well, hard to cut yourself with an electric razor." He scratched at stubble. "Hard to get a close shave, either..."

"Soon you won't even need me anymore." That came out a little more distressed than she'd meant it to.

"Hey, I'll never be able to drive, so I'll always need you." He smiled, but something about it looked a little... fake. "And I need your help now, too." He turned toward the dresser, a built-in shelving and drawer unit that covered one wall. It had a TV. "I need to figure out how to arrange my clothes so I can find things I want, and not just trust to chance."

"Like... by color?" Darcy suggested, walking up to stand beside him.

"Yeah. By color would do." He took a breath, a bigger one than she really thought was necessary. The lines of his face were hard. Or maybe haggard. Yeah, haggard was a better word. "And tomorrow I want to go shopping. I'm going to be here a while, so I might as well get the things I'd use at home. Which means that needs to be arranged so I can find it all by touch, too."

This was excellent. She really was going to have a job for a while! "Okay," Darcy said cheerfully. "In that case, let's get crackin'!"

**  
Afternoon

Clint was sitting, alone, at the bar when Nat reached the community level. She paused in the doorway, listening to him speak.

"I bet you have a lovely singing voice," he said to no one in particular.

"Thank you, sir," JARVIS answered, "but I do not sing."

Clint stretched back along the counter, face tipped upward, drink in one hand. "Well, maybe you should start. I could take you to karaoke some time." His smile was slow and lazy. "I could buy you... whatever it is that AIs like."

"That would be a new experience for me. Karaoke is not something Mr. Stark does."

Nat backed away slowly, shaking her head as she walked down the hall. Surely, _surely_ , Clint wasn't flirting with the AI. He really needed to get out more.

**  
Later Afternoon

Bruce wrapped his hands around the paper cup of herbal tea (he'd had to give up caffeine long ago), letting the heat soak into his bones. The people walking by on the sidewalk, just outside the windows of the little coffeehouse, had faded to the background. The two cops who came in and took a table in the back, though, faces rimmed with exhaustion as they spoke quietly, still had his attention.

They weren't looking for him. They weren't even looking _at_ him. He dragged his focus back to the man he was here to talk to.

"I suppose," Fury said, looking at him thoughtfully, "if we hired you as a contractor to SHIELD, I might be able to release it into your care."

Being hired as a consultant meant his name on a lot of legal paperwork. Meant they could track him easily. "What about hiring Tony as a consultant--" he began, but stopped when Fury raised his eyebrows.

"That paperwork," Fury said neutrally, "would not go through."

"Tony's the leading person in--"

"Stark's name isn't exactly synonymous with reliability or trustworthiness," Fury interrupted.

Bruce winced. He had to give Fury that.

"Having it in the building with Stark will raise some red flags. Giving it to him is out of the question. But you -- you're known for your work. The Council likes you. And if Captain Rogers were willing, I could sign him on as security..." Fury looked thoughtful, then nodded once. "The bureaucrats would like that."

"Is it here? In the city?" Bruce asked, buying himself time while he considered having his name tied to anything.

Fury sipped his coffee. "Back under lock and key." He waited a beat, then leaned forward, weight on his elbows. "This is the deal, Doctor. You can take possession of it to study it, or you can't. SHIELD isn't coming after you, either way."

He couldn't live his life in hiding. Not if he wanted to do anything great. Once, that had been all he'd wanted. Now he mostly wanted to keep from getting cranky and leveling Manhattan.

But the old tickle was back, there in his chest. It was just such a discovery... "All right. Hire me on as a consultant."

"Done." Fury leaned back. He looked pleased, as if he'd called Bruce instead of the other way around. "It'll be in the building as soon as Captain Rogers agrees."

**  
Still Afternoon

Tony aligned pipes to the top of the robot head and, holding them in place, turned to wait for Steve's reaction.

Steve was filthy, sweaty and dusty from tearing down walls and cleaning out rubble. Most of the rubble was in the freight elevator now; as Tony watched Steve dropped the last large beam, making the whole thing shake, hit the button to take the rubble to the crews on the bottom level, and stepped out as the doors closed. _Finally_ he turned to look. Blue eyes skimmed Tony, who was grinning, and looked quizzical.

"Oh, come on." Tony took the pipes down, appalled that Steve didn't get it. "Think Asgardian trickster god." He held the pipes back up.

"The horns on Loki's helmet? Don't you think that's... I don't know... a little macabre?"

"You can't tell me Clint doesn't want a piece of the guy, after Loki shoved his hand up Clint's ass."

"He-- _what_?" Steve looked truly horrified.

Tony tossed the pipes aside. "Made him a puppet. Come on, old man, keep up."

The horror on Steve's face melted into relief, and just a touch of disgust at Tony. Tony didn't care. They'd been working together for two days now, and horror, relief, and disgust Tony knew how to deal with. Every so often he caught a flash of grudging respect, and _that_ was terrifying.

From the bomber jacket heaped in the corner, a phone started to ring.

Steve ignored it. "He wouldn't be able to see he was shooting at a Loki-facsimile anyway."

"So we _tell him_. That's yours." The ringing was still going on.

"What?"

"The modern age is lost on you, Beaver."

"Who's--"

"After your time. Way before mine. Get the phone."

"The-- _oh_." Steve managed to get there, get it out, and flip it open before it stopped ringing. Tony had programmed it to ring ten times before it went to voice mail; he'd gotten tired of walking Steve through how to check his voice mail for yet another missed call. "Steve Rogers."

Tony shook his head. They'd given Steve a flip phone simply because anything touch-related was beyond him. He'd broken three of them after opening a dozen programs and somehow crashing his phones, anyway. He thought the flip phone was a wonder.

Tony busied himself, and a few minutes later Steve came over, looking a little hesitant. "That was Director Fury with a mission," he said, words slow.

Tony straightened. "For the Avengers?"

"For me."

Not nearly so fun.

"I'm being assigned a protection detail for a weapon. Their scientists haven't figured out how it works, and I guess Bruce convinced Fury that he might be able to..."

"The point?" Tony was rapidly running out of patience.

"They're sending Loki's scepter over."

Tony came alert. _That_ could be fun.

**  
Evening

"Because I don't _want_ to go to a bar," Clint said, frustration coloring his words.

"The doctors said alcohol won't hurt, as long as you're not going on benders every night," Nat argued with him. He could imagine her leaning close, looking at him with that sincere intensity she got when she worked marks over.

"There'll be people and noise and--"

"That's kind of the point," she laughed. "We'll get the others to go, too. You'll be around friends. We'll have your back."

It stung that she knew what the problem was. Clint took a deep breath. If he was going to be blind, he had to get used to it.

But-- not right now. Not starting with crowds and alcohol and stupid drunken fools. Going to a drug store in the morning was a big enough step. "Nat--"

Tony's voice rang through the community level, his boots heavy on the floor. "Bruce gets me the _best_ toys!"

"It's not a toy," Bruce said, laughing.

"It's _really_ not a toy, Stark." That was Steve, sounding irritated.

The gang marched into the living room, and something massive banged down across the table. Clint twisted to follow it, though it didn't do him any good since he couldn't _see_ it.

"It's a crate," Nat murmured. "Tony and Bruce are standing by the coffee table, Steve's just beyond. Thor's walking in, and Pepper's coming down the hall."

"What is it?" Pepper called.

Something cracked. Clint flinched and tensed.

"Sorry," Nat murmured. "Tony has a crowbar. Should've warned you."

Something else clattered -- the top off the crate, Clint guessed.

"Oh my God," Pepper said. "Is that--"

"Yeah." Tony sounded gleeful.

" _What_?" Clint snapped, irritated.

Thor spoke. "Loki's scepter."

Clint could feel eyes on him. How many, he didn't know. He processed the words, felt the chill that swept through him. He turned toward Nat. "Okay," he said. "Let's go get drunk."

**  
Evening

Tony clapped Steve's shoulder hard enough that even Steve noticed it. Steve glanced down at him. Tony was drunk. He'd been drunk for a little while, actually.

"I never understood why my father was so invested in the super soldier program," Tony said, leaning close. "But I get it now. You are the permanent designated driver."

"We walked here, Tony," Steve pointed out. "Did you just leave Clint there? Alone? Again?"

"He doesn't mind."

"I'm pretty sure he does." Steve pried Tony's hand off his shoulder, clapped it on Bruce -- who was also sober -- and made his way to the booth in the back of the pub where they'd started at. Everyone had left now, except Clint, who was talking with great sincerity to the empty place across from him.

"--a bar like this in Atlanta, only there was more girls. I think. Are there girls here? Does blindness drive chicks away or help with pity sex? All sex is good, so--"

"He left, Clint," Steve said, wondering when, exactly, he'd become the babysitter.

Clint's face swiveled around, and he seemed to stare at Steve's belt buckle. "Son of a bitch."

"Yeah, I know."

"Did you want your coat back?"

Clint hadn't had one -- Nat had bought him only T-shirts, and those weren't nearly warm enough for the three block stroll in the crisp fall evening. "You already gave it back."

"Oh. Right." Clint looked into his pint, then looked up, two feet to the right of where Steve stood. "Where is everyone?"

Steve sat down next to Clint, their backs to the wall. "Tony is dancing with Pepper," though there wasn't really room for it, "Bruce is trying to talk to Natasha," which even Steve thought was painful to listen to, "and Thor is--" Resignation hit him. "Buying another round."

"A toast!" Thor cried out, and the whole bar cheered. Thor hadn't quite grasped the concept of buying rounds _just_ for their party, and Tony -- who was paying for it -- didn't seem to care. The bartender had a drink in nearly every hand now, and Thor was walking toward Steve and Clint with three shot glasses carefully balanced. "To our fallen warrior, may he heal, live a long life, die in glorious battle and be surrounded by handmaidens thereafter!"

Steve took his shot and passed the other glass to Clint, who raised it and, amid the cheering, yelled, "To me! I like handmaidens!"

**  
Later Evening

Bruce waited until Clint was distracted, then swapped his pint for water. Steve seemed to be the only one to notice, and Bruce exchanged a rueful smile with him.

"I heard that," Clint said, glowering around before sniffing the water and glowering again. "I'm not that drunk, guys."

"Trust me. For the hangover in the morning," Bruce said. Grudgingly, Clint drank. "How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.

Clint sat up straight, a drunken attempt to look sober. "Great. 'Cept for the whole blind thing. An' the dreams. An' Loki's scepter's in the building, that's kinda freakin' me out."

Bruce winced. "Yeah... Should've warned you about that. Sorry."

Clint continued as if he hadn't heard. "An' I'm in the guest room now 'cause Thor put a hole in my bedroom ceiling, an' you know what a blind marksman's good for?"

"What?" Bruce asked, taking the bait.

"Nothing." Clint laughed. "I've been shootin' arrows since I joined the circus, an' now I'm good for nothing." He laughed through the whole sentence, and Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, unsure what to do and looking around for help.

None was forthcoming.

"Wait," Tony said. "Did you just say you joined the circus? When?"

Clint shrugged and drank more water. Bruce put his pint back in front of him. "I was... I dunno. Twelve? 'Leven? Me 'n m' brother." He hit the pint with the backs of his fingers, unaware it was there, then picked it up and drank. "An' lemme tell you, elephants _stink_."

"I'll be damned," Tony said. "You're a real circus freak."

Clint laughed, pointing in Tony's general direction. "Fuck you too, Stark."

"It was a compliment." Tony grinned, too broad, eyes too bright. Bruce glanced around; Thor was only slightly tipsy, and Steve was stone cold sober, but everyone else was three sheets to the wind. Pepper was sitting on Tony's lap, chuckling, and Nat sat on Clint's other side, quietly working her way through a bowl of bar mix, plinking all the wasabi peas into an empty glass.

Steve spoke. "I didn't know people actually... ran away to the circus."

Bruce shrugged. "Me neither."

"Yup," Clint said, rocking with the word. "If the carnies are shady enough not to report runaways to social services, anyway."

Bruce frowned. This was forming a bleaker picture than he'd initially had. Nat looked up, met his eyes, and said clearly, "We should change the subject. He doesn't talk about this."

"I don't?" Clint asked.

Nat bumped him with her shoulder, and he nearly fell into Bruce. Bruce kept them steady.

"I don't," Clint agreed.

Thor stood. "Another round!"

"Yes! An' handmaidens!" Clint cried cheerfully.

**  
Late Evening

Clint's blood hummed under his skin, more alcohol than plasma. Wafts of body scents lingered around him: whatever perfume Pepper wore on his left, Tony's particular odd spice mixed with the tang that Clint thought of as the arc reactor scent, sweat, and dust on his right. Even Nat was there, squished into the corner beyond Tony. Their bodies buffered him as much as the alcohol did, cocooning him in a little safety zone. After he'd braved the floor (and the crowd) to use the toilet just a few moments before, he needed that safety zone. He'd bumped into people despite Bruce's steadying hand, had people bump into him, knocked over a server with a platter, and nearly had a heart attack at the crash.

It was nice to have a safety zone.

"Feeling better?" Pepper asked, leaning into him.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he muttered to his beer.

"I'm asking because you looked like you were going to have a panic attack when that platter crashed."

Clint laughed, mostly because it was true. "Yeah. I almost did." He looked toward Pepper, really focusing, trying to see any little bit of light. Nothing. "I never used to have panic attacks, y'know. Because I could see. An' I knew I wasn't gettin' attacked."

"I can imagine that would make a difference," Pepper agreed.

"An' now..." He lost his train of thought.

"You have bad dreams," Pepper said.

He looked up. "How'd you know?"

"You said so earlier. D'you want to talk about it?"

Tony spoke up from his other side. "He doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to drink!"

The words spilled out, like ale from the spout. "I dream 'bout Loki. An' never seeing again. Know what use a blind marksman is?"

She answered him quietly. "None."

He reeled, hearing it from her mouth. But she was right. He'd said so earlier. "None," he agreed.

"You could do other things."

"No." He shook his head, certain of that. "I ain't got nothing else I can do. Mebbe I could... I could..." He rubbed his forehead. "If I go permanently blind..." He'd said it a million times. Found ridiculous responses to make it easier.

No answer came.

"But you're not going to go permanently blind," Tony said doggedly. "You'll get better."

"No." Clint frowned. He was saying that a lot. "I'm gonna effec'ively be blind. See some light 'n dark, but... when I go permanently blind..." He tried again to come up with a response. None came. He laughed weakly, alcohol buzzing, eyes burning. He rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye, and was stunned to realize it was wet. He wiped off his face, sat up, blinked to clear vision that would never be clear again.

"We'll make it better," Tony said stubbornly. "Don't be upset. We'll make it better. You can be a CEO! I'll give you a business. A shooting school! For the blind! You could teach _classes_ on archery for blind people." He paused, then added, "Insurance might be an issue..."

Clint drank. Then, "I suck as a teacher."

"He does," Nat confirmed.

"An' warriors who don't die warriors don't go to Valhalla with the handmaidens, right, Thor?"

"We'll find a way for you to go out fighting, Clint," Thor assured him.

"Use me to stop a runaway train!" he suggested, choking on a laugh. " _That_ is what blind marksmen are good for!"

Pepper sounded disgusted. "That's just-- you can't-- yuck."

Clint reeled toward her. She smelled quite nice. "You know, I don't actually know what you look like." She'd felt slim, the few times he'd put a hand on her for guidance, and shorter than he was by just a little bit.

Then he pulled away, turning to regard the bar as a whole, opening his eyes wide for a moment as if it might help him see. It didn't. "Actually, I don't really know what most of you look like. I mean, a little, sure. We fought aliens together. But mostly I was focused on the aliens and the fighting and not so much you." He pointed in the direction Thor had been last. "I know he's got surfer hair. An' he's huge." Then Bruce. "An' Banner's got brown hair." He pulled away from Tony to look in that direction. "I know what you look like, 'cause you're always in the fuckin' news."

Tony laughed. "You should do that face touchy thing blind people do. Isn't that what they do? To see?"

"Not sure that would help. I don't translate feeling to vision. 'Sides, people aren't gonna want me pawing their faces all the time."

"You know what you look like, right?" Tony pointed out. "Feel your own face and go off that."

Clint put a hand over his face and felt. Eyes, nose -- he started to laugh. "Ho shit, Darcy said my nose was weird."

"No!" Pepper protested. "You have a lovely nose!"

"I broke it."

"Fell off a trapeze?" Tony asked hopefully.

"A fence." He thought he had a feel for his face. It was his face. He could match bits to the way they felt.

"Okay," Tony said, grabbing his wrist and hauling his hand over. "Now feel my face. 'Cause you know how I look, right? Same thing."

Laughing, Clint felt Tony's face. The scratch of a goatee, his nose--

"Keep your fingers out of my nostrils," Tony said solemnly.

"Sorry!" Clint dropped his hand, leaning back against Pepper, sides hurting because he'd been laughing too much. He'd always been a cheerful drunk.

"Okay, Nat! Natasha! Agent Romanoff! You, from legal! Come here. Clint needs to feel your face."

She oofed and was suddenly where Tony had been, one hand braced on Clint's thigh as if she'd fallen -- or been pulled. "Hi, Clint."

"Hi, Nat," he said, amused. "Can I feel your face?"

"Sure, why not."

He found her hair -- a bunch of curls, a little wiry -- and moved downwards. Small, round nose, full lips, pointed chin. He could imagine it as well as he could imagine his own.

"Okay," Tony said, and she oofed again and was gone, "now Pepper!"

"Uh..." Clint faced her. "I don't have to--"

"Okay, okay, wait, I have to stop laughing," she said. She cleared her throat, made vaguely musical noises, and said, "All right. Now. Don't poke me in the eye."

"I'll try not to," Clint said, hesitantly holding his hand up and moving it toward her until she grabbed his wrist and slapped it against her own cheek.

He started with the hair. Soft hair, done up in some kind of intricate girly thing that he was careful not to mess up. She had a fringe over her forehead, thin eyebrows, smooth skin.

"I have red hair," she told him. "Not as red as Natasha's, though. And freckles. They're the bane of my existence."

"I love them," Tony said over Clint's shoulder.

Clint smiled. Where Nat's nose scooped upward, Pepper's was thin and straight. Her cheekbones were high, her face leaner than Nat's, with a more pronounced jawline and a narrower mouth. Clint's smile came and went as he focused, trying to put together everything he felt into something he could see in his mind's eye. "This is kinda cool," he said after a while, and only then realized their little group had gone silent.

Laughter cascaded around the booth, and he did a mental count: he was pretty sure everyone was there.

"Who's next?" Pepper asked as he pulled his hand away and settled back against Tony. "Bruce! Here, take my seat." Pepper scooted out, and a moment later someone else took her spot.

"Okay," Bruce said, his tone a little amused and a little resigned and a lot like they all belonged in the loony bin. "I guess I'm next."

Male faces, Clint realized, were different than female faces. Rougher, first of all, even when they were clean shaven. Bigger, harder boned, the lips not as soft even on full mouths, like Bruce's. Bruce's hair was coarser, too, though Tony's had been soft. Curls tickled Clint's fingers.

Then it was Steve, whose short hair was a little stiff with some kind of hair goop, whose nose was narrower and jaw was more muscular. "Just like the rest of you," Clint laughed, and then had to explain what he'd been thinking. He could almost _hear_ Steve blushing, pinned under the weight of everyone's examination.

Thor was last. "Oh my God," Clint said, running his fingers through hair that felt more like mink than hair.

"That is me," Thor said, sounding utterly pleased with his own joke.

"Very funny. Seriously, guys, you have to feel this." Someone -- Nat, he thought -- reached past him to do just that.

A moment later Nat said, "That's not human."

"I'm _not_ human," Thor pointed out.

"God," Pepper sighed, "I want Asgardian hair."

Thor smelled different, too. Less like sweat and more like... bow resin. "Good news for men everywhere," Clint announced, trying to keep a straight face. "His stubble is just as rough as Tony's."

"I don't have _stubble_ ," Tony protested.

Thor laughed, and a minute later Clint was half-pinned to the bench as Thor reached past him. "Tony," Thor said, "you do indeed have stubble, and it is indeed rough."

Pepper was saying, "Hang on, hang on, someone get a picture of this--" and then there was the shnit of the fake-shutter on a smart phone. "Oh, that's wonderful."

Then Thor's hand landed on Clint's face, rubbing his cheek. "Your stubble is rougher than Tony's, friend."

Tony piped up, incensed. "It should be! I _condition_ my stubble, okay? An' it's not stubble!"

**  
Night

Clint staggered into the elevator, his feet nearly off the ground as Thor wrapped an arm around him and simply lifted. "Thanks," he said, head lolling back, and back farther, and finally coming to rest on Thor's neck, just under his chin.

"You're welcome," Thor said cheerfully, and reached around Clint to push the button as everyone else piled in.

"Oh my God," Nat groaned. "Too much rum."

"If you say so, Captain Sparrow," Tony practically chirped.

Nat sounded confused. "I-- I don't get that reference."

"I _never_ get his references," Steve said glumly.

Clint smiled, feeling each muscle in his body get a little more relaxed, and more of his weight sag back against Thor. "Captain Jack Sparrow. I get you, man."

"See, my homme here understands me."

"Oh, Tony," Pepper laughed. "Please never say 'homme' again."

The elevator rocked to a halt.

"This is me," Bruce said, and Clint listened to people shuffle around to let him out. Thor rocked, swinging Clint one way and then back upright.

The elevator continued, but stopped a moment later.

"This is you," Thor rumbled in his ear. He could feel the vibrations of Thor's voice against his back.

" _Right_." He didn't move. Too much effort to get his legs under him. But that was all right, because Thor just picked him up so his legs dangled in front of Thor's legs, and started walking.

"I'll see him to bed," Thor said over his shoulder. There was a chorus of "Good nights" and the elevator door closed again. "You're sleeping in the guest room?"

"Uh huh," Clint said. He wondered if he picked his arms up, if he'd slide right out from Thor's grip. He tried. He didn't slide.

"Did you want to walk?"

"Nah." But Thor did set him down a moment later.

"Would you like some water?"

"Yes," Clint said definitely. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all."

He stood there as Thor walked away, working hard to remain upright. A human in the center of nothingness, unsure where he'd been placed in the apartment. He stretched his arms out, but didn't feel anything. Carefully, he slid one foot forward, then the other.

"Did you need something?"

Clint jumped and turned, and the world just kept turning. He staggered to one side, completely off-balance. Thor grabbed his shoulder, stabilizing him, and he grabbed Thor's arms with both of his own. "Where _am_ I?"

"The guest bedroom. Here, walk toward me... there you are. The doorway." Thor took his wrist and pressed something cool into his hand. "Your water."

He drank it all. Thor took the glass, vanished, and a moment later Clint heard the glass click on his nightstand.

"Are you all right?" Thor asked.

Clint scowled. "People keep asking me that."

"They're worried about you. We're your friends, Clint. Will you sleep all right?"

"Pass out, sure." He leaned against the door frame, though, and didn't approach the bed.

"And when your mind is empty, will the demons take over?"

Clint smiled faintly. Flashbacks. "I don't think so. Not tonight."

Thor was quiet for a long while. He sighed gently. "You don't look happy."

Clint made an effort to straighten, to plaster the fake smile he'd gotten so good at on his face. "Better?"

"No, and I hesitate to leave you. Human ways are similar to Asgardian ways sometimes, and completely different other times. If I am wrong, tell me. But when I am low, there is one thing certain to raise my spirits, and my friends will indulge me." He'd walked closer; footsteps quiet on the carpeting, but his voice coming near.

Clint angled his face about where he thought Thor's face was. "All right...?"

A callused hand slid along his jaw, tipping his face up a little farther, fingers stabilizing the back of his head. He knew, drunkenly, what was happening just before it happened, but it was still a surprise when dry lips brushed against his, slanting so their noses didn't bump. It wasn't much more than that, than a body pressing into his, easing him back more fully against the doorframe. Thor didn't deepen it, but kept it light and easy and a minute later pulled back.

Clint could almost feel the question hanging between them. "Most humans," he said slowly, "would not consider gay sex to be soothing."

"Ah. Then I apologize." Thor dropped his hand and started to step back.

"Hey, wait--" Clint protested, and slapped his hand out, hitting Thor's chest just where he thought he would, knotting his hand in Thor's shirt -- a T-shirt, or something else soft -- and pulling forward.

It was impossible to actually pull an Asgarian god forward. The shirt would rip first, or Clint would do exactly what he did, and topple himself off his feet, staggering into Thor. That worked, too. Thor laughed, one arm going around Clint's back, steadying him and pulling him toward the bed.

Clint really hoped they didn't break the bed.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Thor said, suddenly serious. "You're not... well, you're human."

"Oh, don't worry." Clint landed on the bed and shoved up into a sitting position. "I'll let you know." The world swam, his skin tingled with the buzz of alcohol under it. His lips felt just a little bit numb, and for a moment he was sad that sex with a god was going to happen when he wasn't at his clearest.

But, hey. Sex with a god. Sex with Thor, which was somehow better. Clint started to laugh -- Thor still hadn't joined him on the bed, but clothing was rustling so that was all right -- and Thor said, "What's funny?"

"It's hammer time," Clint said, and fell to his side in a fit of giggles.

"Isn't that what your other shirt says?" Thor sounded utterly confused, and Clint couldn't blame him.

"No, no, it's just -- never mind, I'll explain later."

The bed dipped, and Thor rolled him over, kissing him again. "You, Clint, are wearing far too many clothes," he said.

Clint laughed, sat up, was hauled out of his shirt and felt Thor tugging at the button of his jeans even before he'd tossed his shirt elsewhere. Thor thought nothing of flipping him up, legs in the air, and yanking his jeans off in one fell swoop.

He was going to sleep with a god. With Thor. He didn't have much time to decide if that thought brought excitement or uncertainty before Thor was leaning over him, kissing with expert ability.

"How old _are_ you?" Clint asked when he was given a moment to come up for air.

"By human reckoning?" Thor laughed. "Nearly two thousand years old. By Asgardian reckoning, I'm a young man. Younger than you, I dare say."

"Hey..." But he didn't really feel offended. "This isn't creepy _at all_."

Thor pulled back then. "You would rather not...?"

Clint sat up. He didn't know what he rathered. His emotions were a soup. "I saw you," he blurted out. "Back in New Mexico. Before the Destroyer attacked. I saw you when you were tearing through the compound, and couldn't lift your hammer."

The room remained silent. Clint realized, faintly, that he might have just fucked up.

"I didn't know you were there," Thor said.

"I was supposed to take you out. Coulson said to wait." Thor had been broken, then. Hurt and angry and hopeful, only to find defeat at the hands of his father -- information Clint hadn't had until later. The corner of Clint's mouth kicked up. "You were impressive, even without your hammer."

"Against humans?" Thor sounded amused. "I suppose I was."

Clint sat, feeling the alcohol pull him low.

Thor spoke gently. "Shall we stop here then, Clint? Or would you rather continue?"

Clint wanted his sight back. He wanted to know that everything would be all right. He wanted --

He wanted--

More than he could have.

A hand slid around his ribs, the bed dipping as Thor moved. Warm breath on his neck, following by lips and the wet stroke of a tongue. Thor spoke against him. "Try not to think."

It was good advice. He only thought depressing things, anyway. Clint closed his eyes, pretending the darkness was by choice, and tipped his head back. The world spun when he did, but he ignored it, feeling the strength in the arm around him. Odd, to be the weaker one. To be held up, when he would otherwise fall back.

He ran his own hands down Thor's bare arm, the skin over-warm and still smelling of bow resin. He took a deep breath, leaning in to kiss muscle along Thor's shoulder, testing it with his teeth.

"You can't hurt me," Thor said, and Clint couldn't decide if it was brag or reassurance. He bit down because he could, just to see if Thor was telling the truth.

His jaw started to ache before Thor said anything. "Brat," Thor chuckled, and snaking an arm around Clint's torso he picked Clint up and flipped him onto his back.

Clint yelped and started to sit up, but Thor pinned him down. Long hair tickled Clint's throat and chest as Thor licked across a flat nipple.

Clint hooked Thor's leg and tried to flip him over, which should have worked no matter how strong or what the god's weight, but Thor only chuckled and skimmed his hands lower, mouth moving down too.

Well. Clint wasn't going to object to _that_.

With his chest free, he propped himself up on his elbows, reaching with one arm to feel the play of muscles under Thor's skin. He dug his nails in when Thor first licked his cock and then sucked it. Clint thrust upward. He didn't really care if it was rude: Thor _had_ said Clint couldn't hurt him. It was practically a dare.

Thor didn't object. He didn't move off or pin Clint's hips or anything else. He sucked harder, until Clint squawked something -- "Not so hard!" -- and then he laughed and pulled off.

"I should like to swive thee," Thor said, accent thickening. "Unless you wouldst like to swive me, in which case--"

"I don't even know what you're _saying_ ," Clint laughed, and sat up, catching Thor's shoulder and heaving him over--

Except Thor didn't go anywhere.

"Wait -- is this what you wanted?" Thor asked, and fell back, pulling Clint on top of him.

"Yeah," Clint said. "That's what I wanted." He skimmed his hands down Thor's body, larger and harder and warmer than any human man's Clint had felt.

Thor smelled different. He really did smell like bow resin, which happened to be one of Clint's favorite scents. Clint bent to lick his hip (and bite again, just to see) and then lower, following the crease of hip and thigh to Thor's cock. Finally, when he licked up Thor's cock to the tip, he realized that Thor _tasted_ different, too.

"Oh, my God," Clint said, before sliding his mouth down Thor's erection. He took as much as he could, assuming from the noises Thor made that it was just as good for Asgardian gods as it was for human mortals. Then Thor bucked, and Clint was pretty sure the back of his throat would be bruised. He came off quickly, slapping a hand on Thor's stomach. The world spun. "Don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry, sorry, my apologies," Thor said, sounding contrite. "I forget how fragile humans--"

"And being called fragile really isn't helping," Clint laughed.

Thor fell silent. "Please," he said after a moment, "continue. I shall remember."

Clint licked the head of Thor's cock again, trying to place the taste. He tasted like... like... "Peppermint schnapps."

Thor made an inarticulate noise.

Clint looked up. "You taste like peppermint schnapps."

Thor sounded strangled. "Indeed? Each human I've been with has said I taste like something different."

"This is a god thing, isn't it? It's how all you Asgardians get laid so often."

Thor laughed and, apparently tired of waiting, scooted around. Clint hesitated, unsure exactly what was going on. Thor licked the inside of Clint's thigh, and Clint groaned.

Clint ran his hands over Thor's body, re-assessing what was where. Sixty-nining. He could handle that. Oh God, he could _definitely_ handle that.

Despite the alcohol, everything seemed heightened. Thor's mouth was hot and demanding on his cock. Thor's cock was thick in his own mouth, hard and long and perfect against his tongue and the top of his jaw. He ran his hands up and down Thor's flanks, feeling downy hair and muscle, feeling it flex under his palms. There was a scar, a thin divot down Thor's calf. There another, longer, puckered just beneath Thor's ribs.

Thor's hands ran over Clint's body, too, making Clint shiver and groan, trailing fire in their wake.

And then Thor pulled away.

"Hey!" Clint protested as cold air replaced the body that had been warming him, and the bed bounced as Thor got up.

"We need some form of oil," Thor said. Drawers opened and closed.

Clint tried to make his brain work. "I thought we were doing pretty well."

Footsteps padded out of the room at a run. Clint sat up, wondering what the hell kind of Asgardian thing was going on now. The footsteps came back just a few moments later. Thor's hand on his chest pushed him to his back. He grabbed it and twisted, meaning to pull Thor over and knock Thor off his feet.

Thor remained where he was and chuckled, put a warm hand in the small of Clint's back, and kept him propped on his side.

"Hey," Clint said, trying to roll back over. "Don't be a dick."

The bed dipped. Then dipped on each side. Thor's hand slid down Clint's spine, a hand on Clint's chest mirroring the one in back. When Thor took Clint's cock in hand, he slid his other fingers down Clint's crease and pressed against his hole. His finger was slick with whatever oil he'd found in the kitchen.

"Oh!" Clint said, understanding dawning. "Swive!"

"Yes," Thor laughed. "What did you think I meant?"

"I didn't--" Thor pressed in. "Oh my God, okay, you know you're going to have to be on the bottom, right?"

"I don't know your terminology." Thor bent down and licked Clint's cock. Clint jerked into his mouth, rolling his hips slightly. It pushed Thor's finger into his ass. He groaned. It had been a _really long time_ since he'd had sex with another man, and even longer since he'd had this kind of sex with another man.

"It means," Clint panted, as Thor lifted him off the bed effortlessly and settled in an easier position, apparently between Clint's legs from the way he kept sucking and the change in the angle of his finger, "either that I, uh, swive you, or you lay on the bed so I can-- fuck -- control, uh, everything." Hard to control anything when Thor was doing such wonderful, delicious things with his tongue.

"I would be amenable to both," Thor said easily.

God, he was a switch. Clint's day was looking up. "Then you need to put the oil where I can find it, and get your cock up here," Clint demanded.

Laughing, Thor did as he was told, a knee on either side of Clint's head, his face back down over Clint's cock.

Thor definitely had thousands of years of practice at giving blowjobs and fingering, Clint decided, trying to focus on his own job and distracted beyond believe. The sheets rasped against his back and legs. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. Thor's mouth moved on him with a slow, agonizing certainty that promised an amazing orgasm, and Thor's fingers stretched and slid into him carefully.

Despite Thor's care, every so often Clint would grunt and gasp, "Gentler," and Thor would slow down, free hand stroking Clint's hips and legs and anything else he could reach.

Clint, for his part, sucked and licked and slid his fingers into Thor, too drunk and too distracted to be sure how he was doing or what the fuck came next.

But of course, fucking came next, and when he was sure he was just going to come in Thor's mouth (and that was perfectly fine with him), Thor pulled off and pulled out and flipped around, scooping Clint up like he was a ragdoll and setting him on his knees.

"Okay," Clint said, grabbing for anything to steady himself and finding Thor's shoulders. They were facing each other, then, both on their knees on the bed. "We have to talk about that flinging me around thing."

"Later," Thor said, and Clint was at least gratified to hear that Thor sounded hot and bothered, too.

"Now," Clint said. Later wouldn't do him much good.

Then Thor leaned in, stopping the flow of words with a well timed kiss that demanded Clint open his mouth and give way. So naturally Clint argued, sliding his own tongue into Thor's mouth, tangling them and pushing back. Thor chuckled, wrapping an arm around Clint, a hand between his shoulder blades, and pulled him down on top.

Clint really had no choice in the matter. He fell, bumping his head on Thor's chin as the kiss broke, landing hard on Thor's chest. Thor was laughing, so Clint did, too. Then Thor wrapped his legs around Clint's waist, hand coming between them to line Clint up and oh, he understood how to do this.

"You sure--?" he asked anyway, because really, he hadn't been keeping track of how prepared Thor was.

"Yes," Thor murmured, tightening his legs on Clint.

Clint pushed in, groaning. "Fuck -- fuck -- fuck--" Thor was hotter and tighter than anyone he'd ever been inside, tight almost to the point of painful, but so incredibly good. "You -- okay?" He breathed, pausing partway in.

"By the Allfather, Clint, swive me!"

Clint dissolved into laughter, resting his forehead against Thor's sweaty chest. "Not swive, Thor, fuck. The current term is fuck."

"Very well. Fuck me!"

Never let it be said that Clint didn't do as a god asked. He slid all the way in and Thor was still okay with it, so he pulled out and thrust again, one hand on Thor's chest, feeling the way muscles bunched and loosened. And Thor really did seem okay with it.

Clint leaned in, stealing a kiss by grabbing Thor's hair and pulling him close, peppering more along Thor's chest and shoulders. He could feel orgasm building rapidly, aided by the noises Thor made. His balls tightened, everything from pelvis to knees tingling. He came shouting, eyes clenched against darkness, pleasure rocketing through him like soaring or shooting or champagne. He collapsed on top of Thor, who was already moving, pulling away and sitting up and catching Clint under his arms before lifting him -- they really needed to talk about that -- and setting him on Thor's lap.

Oh. _Oh_. Clint's eyes opened, but darkness still greeted him. He closed them again and looped his hands on Thor's shoulders, running his fingers through soft, inhuman hair. "It's been a while," Clint said warningly.

"Not so long. I just had my fingers inside you." Thor's voice was laced with amusement.

Clint chuckled. "Okay, point."

"I'll go slow."

"That's good."

Thor lifted him, pushed him back a little. He felt the head of Thor's cock against his ass, thick and long and definitely godly. Clint let his head fall back and breathed, still buzzing from his own orgasm.

"I might," Thor said, "need an extra hand."

Clint laughed and reached back, lining Thor up. When Thor started to lower him, he took his weight on his knees to control it. Thor's hands came away, sliding down his sides. He could slide his hands just a little and feel Thor's chest; the god was sitting upright, their breath mingling.

"God," Clint breathed, and, "Fuck."

"We are." Thor sounded confused.

Clint laughed weakly. "Not what I -- oh, Jesus." He slid a little farther, body opening up slowly. Just like stretching, right? Bit by bit.

He gasped when the flare of Thor's cock slid past the ring of muscle, letting it contract somewhat again. He groaned when he sank farther down onto Thor, taking him deeper.

Muscles trembled beneath his hands, under a fine sheath of skin and a finer film of sweat. He leaned forward and licked Thor's throat, tasting peppermint schnapps and laughing before he sat back and settled lower.

Finally Thor was buried in him all the way, hands as careful on his hips as if he were spun glass. Thor gave him a moment, then grasped his hips and lifted before bringing him down again.

Clint groaned, scratching Thor's chest with one hand, the other skidding over Thor's sweat-slick abdomen.

"Yes," Thor said, letting go of Clint's hips with one hand to stroke Clint's spent cock before rubbing a thumb over his balls. Clint cursed and gasped and rode Thor, voice going hoarse. Thor bucked upward into him, and it was almost -- but not quite -- too much.

Everything with Thor was almost but not quite too much. That was okay; the rooms were soundproofed. He shouted his fool head off, and when Thor finally drove into him and held there, coming, Clint damn near came again himself.

He collapsed on top of Thor, the world spinning and clearer than it had ever been before.

After a little while they disengaged carefully, Clint rolling onto his stomach and sprawling across the bed, pleased and a little relieved when Thor did the same. They didn't worry about the mess.

Thor only kicked Clint once in their sleep.

****


	9. Part Two: Day 14

Day Fourteen  
Morning

Darcy keyed in the code to Clint's apartment and walked in, whistling. They were going _shopping_ today. She loved shopping. And while Clint had suggested they only needed bathroom things and maybe a couple of sweaters, she just bet she could convince him to head to Nordstrom's, where she could decorate his delish body with--

Voices stopped her in the hall.

"Batman is giving chase!" someone cried with excitement. "But the dastardly villain has taken a bystander and is using her as a shield. Now Batman stops..."

"Let her go, Chucko," a television voice said. "She's not who you want."

Thor spoke again. "Chucko is taking out a weapon, like one of the ones SHIELD created--"

Darcy crept around the wall, curved to echo the oval-shape of the building, and peered into the guest bedroom.

Clint and Thor were sprawled across the bed, each with a bowl of cereal, each bare-assed naked. Clint was sitting cross-legged, the angle of his body blocking anything except a swath of creamy skin along his hip and thigh, one hand holding his bowl and the other stroking Thor, who laid on his stomach beside Clint. Clint petted the small of Thor's back, over his naked butt, back to the small of his spine. Clint picked his fingers up and sniffed them, smiling blindly. Then he licked them. "Thor, even your _sweat_ tastes like schnapps. Like... Rumple Minze."

With a mind blowingly gorgeous ripple of muscle, Thor laughed and twisted to look over his shoulder, catching sight of Darcy. His face lit up. "Darcy!"

"What?" Clint jerked, nearly spilling his cereal.

Thor leaped to his feet, facing her and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Darcy felt her eyebrows shoot upward, but couldn't help it. "Thor's hammer. Right," she muttered.

Clint was scrambling for blankets. Thor was beaming at her.

"Join us!"

What she was seeing suddenly hit. Darcy's eyes narrowed. "You two-timing jackal!"

Thor looked baffled. "What?"

"What?" Clint echoed, cereal spilled across the sheets and the comforter wrapped around half his body. He'd managed to escape to the other side of the bed and stand.

"What about Jane?" Darcy yelled, warming up to her topic.

Thor clearly didn't get it. "I suppose she could join us, but I was under the impression she was too far away--"

"That's not what I mean, you cheating scoundrel!" She looked around, then snatched the alarm clock off the nightstand and hurled it at him. He blocked it absently.

"Wait, let me get this straight," Clint said. "Thor, _you_ have a girlfriend?"

"What? No, I--"

"No?" Darcy yelled. She looked around for something else to throw, but stopped short of the lamp. She yanked her jacket off, balled it up, and threw that instead. "No? Then what exactly is Jane?"

"For the record," Clint said, "I didn't know about this."

She grabbed the pillow and hurled it at him. It was amazingly satisfying, because he didn't dodge. He did practically flail, almost dropping his comforter when the pillow hit him, though. There was a remarkable amount of cursing, too, and he nearly tripped over the trailing end of his blanket.

"Watch thineself, girl," Thor growled. "Throwing things at me is one thing, but that is a wounded comrade."

"He's fine," Darcy scoffed. "It was a _pillow_. You're the cheater, here! And you!" She rounded on Clint. "You're not off the hook just because you didn't ask!"

Clint was still struggling with the comforter, clearly off-balance and-- yup, there he caught it wrong and went down in a pile of softness.

"Clint!" Thor said, striding that way.

Clint popped back up, scowling. "Okay, enough, both of you. Darcy, get out of my room. I'll meet you in the living room shortly."

"But--"

"Out!"

Scowling, with one final glare at that two-timing bastard, she turned and marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.

**  
Late Morning

The silence from the driver's seat was loaded. Clint couldn't even distract himself by staring out the window, because he couldn't fucking _see_. "Would you knock it off?" he snapped finally.

"I can't believe you--" Darcy began, and he cut her off.

"I didn't know. Hell, _Thor_ didn't realize there were rules regarding this kind of thing. He's already left to talk to Jane," whoever that was, "so you can just stop being all cranky about it."

Silence.

"Hope you used condoms," Darcy said peevishly. "Weird things happen with god sperm."

Clint didn't deign to answer, though they hadn't used condoms. Chalk another one up to stupid drunk people. At least he couldn't get pregnant.

"If you believe the myths, Loki got pregnant."

Clint kept his expression carefully neutral.

"We're here," Darcy said, pulling the car to a stop. "Jacket, toiletries, sweaters and thermals. And the shirt you're wearing is stupid."

**  
Afternoon

Bruce was in the company's R&D lab, on the phone with Tony, when Clint found him. He smiled a little concernedly and held up a "just one minute" finger; Clint hadn't stepped foot in the lab until now. "Tony, I'm telling you, nanobots definitely have a biological application, but if you want them to be able to carry something and find each other, they need some kind way to do it. And that's your area, not mine." He listened, smiling apologetically at Clint. "Great. Do that, and then we'll see if they can find each other with an IPS cell payload." He hung up. "Hey, Clint. Help you?"

Clint hovered near the door, whether because he wanted to escape or because he didn't know the layout of the room, Bruce couldn't tell. Probably wise to be cautious, though: there were projects and scientists scattered throughout. Rather than answer the question, Clint asked one of his own. "What are you doing down here, instead of in your lab?"

Bruce pulled his glasses off to clean them. "They have some gear down here that isn't available elsewhere. But surely that's not why you were looking for me?"

Clint gave an abortive nod. He inched along the wall, feet sliding instead of stepping, hands slightly away from his sides. "What do you know about Asgardian physiology?"

"Ahhh..." Bruce wracked his brain, then had to admit, "Not a lot. We should probably know more, in case Thor gets injured, but..."

Clint winced. "We had sex last night, and Darcy said that, according to legend, Loki got pregnant."

Bruce's eyebrows rose at the first bit, then rose higher at the second. "I didn't know about that, but I could look into it for you. In the meantime--"

"Condoms, yeah, I know," Clint muttered unhappily. Then he gave a wry twist of a smile. "I doubt it'll happen again, anyway."

Bruce looked him over carefully. There was a dark bruise on one arm, almost hidden under the sleeves of his "Avengers Assemble" t-shirt, which had them all assembling into a single giant robot. The green guy, he noticed, was the torso. "You look like... you had a _lot_ of fun."

Clint looked a little alarmed.

"You have a nice bruise on your arm, there."

He must have remembered the instance, or maybe it was sore, because he reached for the spot with obvious certainty. "Ah... He's really strong."

"Yeah," Bruce laughed lightly. "Look, I'll check about the pregnancy thing and on STDs and STIs, but I'm thinking you probably don't need to worry about it too much. Loki is Asgardian and you're... not."

Clint nodded. "Thanks, Bruce." Clint turned and headed back toward the door.

Someone else walked through, vials balanced carefully on a tray, eyes on them instead of where he was going. Clint's eyes couldn't be on where he was going. "Clint--" Bruce started, jumping forward. Too late, though: the men collided. The tray bobbled, and no matter how fast Bruce moved he couldn't get over there in time to stop the vials from falling. Glass shattered on the floor, across a table, down into the nooks and crannies of something electrical being built along the wall.

The electrical thing sparked. And then it exploded, fire and plastic shooting everywhere.

Bruce whipped away, protecting his face. People screamed. Plastic rained down, hot and scalding, melting across his lab coat. Frantically, he yanked out of it, trying to breathe, trying to stay calm as the air grew thick with smoke and -- something else. Something that burned his lungs and made his eyes water.

Couldn't panic here. Had to smash the startle reaction. His heart hammered against his ribcage, but he _couldn't change_. There were too many lives at stake, an entire building here and a whole city below.

Don't think about it, God, he couldn't think about it. Anxiety would make his made heart race faster, too.

The Hulk thundered inside him, beating against his chest. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Harder and faster with each moment. Breathe. Breathe.

A scream ripped through the air, full of sheer terror. Bruce looked around, and realized she was screaming _at him_. It was all right, it was all right--

His heart thumped again, and he shouted in sudden pain as it lurched and grew, too big for his chest. But not for long. His hands felt numb as they swelled. He took a breath, and it was too big, and he was not going to win this fight, and all these people were going to die.

**  
Afternoon

Clint couldn't hear a damned thing. He'd been talking, he'd bumped into someone, and then there'd been an explosion. Adrenaline pumped through his system, overwhelming any minor injuries he might have sustained. His ears rang, all other sounds snuffed out by the deafness the blast had caused.

Blind _and_ deaf, and he had no way of knowing if it was an accident or an attack. Deep breath. It probably wasn't an attack.

He pulled himself up the wall, glass crunching beneath his boots.

A scream pierced the whirling silence outside his ears. He turned to face it. Someone raced past him, nearly knocking him over again. He skid on broken glass and almost caught himself, except now there was a rush for the doors beyond him, and when the third person glanced his shoulder he fell, too off-balance to stop.

Glass sliced into his hands and arms, through the denim covering one knee.

An attack, then.

Even through the deafness, he heard the next roar. It was impossible to not recognize from briefings and studies and tactical theories and, finally, from six months earlier when the aliens had attacked.

The Hulk was loose.

Clint ignored the glass, twisting to his back and then up to his feet. He didn't have his bow and arrows. He didn't even have a knife; too dangerous for those around him, with the flashbacks.

The Hulk roared again, and this time the ground trembled with the concussive force. He was still growing.

"Banner!" Clint bellowed, as loud as he could. He couldn't hear his own voice, except through his bones. "You've got to--"

Telling him to stay calm had never worked. The one time Banner had chosen to become the Hulk, though, he'd controlled it.

"You've got to make it happen! Let go! Do it, Banner, and take charge!"

Silence.

He could hear his own breath, like scuba diving, channeled through his body. He could feel pain all up and down his arms, along his knees, here and there on his back, in his hands. The air was thick with something, and he repressed the urge to cough. There were no more vibrations; no one running.

Clint wasn't about to run. He had no way of telling _where_ to run, and hadn't a chance of out-running the Hulk. Not like this.

God help him if they were _also_ under attack, which seemed entirely likely. Clint willed his hearing to come back. It didn't happen. He didn't even know where in the lab he was, anymore. Near the door, surely. He could barely breathe; his eyes were starting to sting and run from the gas in the air.

There was a thump, traveling up from the floor through his feet. He bent his knees slightly, arms just away from his sides, heart pounding.

Another roar, and a much harder vibration. Something hit him, and he jumped out of the way, slammed into a table, and trailed one hand around its edge to find the other side.

Attack? Or accident?

The Hulk roared again, and this time he could feel the hot, foul breath of the monster. He flung an arm in front of his face, reeling back. More vibrations, and a great hand snatched him up and pinned him against a wall, his feet dangling off the floor. The Hulk bellowed, and this time Clint caught his breath and began to cough, inhaling too much of whatever was in the air.

"Banner," he croaked, his ribs protesting as he was pressed into the wall. Except what he was going to say now, he didn't know. The Hulk didn't _stop_ ; he could only be redirected.

Which was the solution, Clint realized suddenly. Either the Hulk was in control and he'd be jelly in another minute, or Banner had some grasp on things and could be re-directed. "Find whoever did this."

The Hulk's grip tightened in his shirt and yanked him away from the wall, swinging him through the air. He grabbed hold of the Hulk's wrist, trying to support himself, to keep from getting flung elsewhere. But the Hulk seemingly had no intention of flinging him anywhere, though he hit the floor and was dragged along. Clint tried to get his legs underneath himself, but the Hulk only picked him up and roared at him again: the one sound loud enough to get through the concussion deafness.

He wasn't sure how long he was dragged, legs banging into doorways and tables, before the Hulk tossed him. He slammed against a wall, sliding down it to find the floor many feet below where he'd hit. He landed and started coughing, gasping for fresh air. Wherever he was, it was outside the area they'd gassed. He gagged and spat up bile.

He couldn't orient himself. Whether the Hulk had carried him ten feet or a hundred, he didn't know. No way to tell if he was in a hall or a room or an entirely different floor. If the attack that had released the Hulk was still going on, or if it had been contained.

His heart pounded, flooding him with adrenaline and memories.

Something touched his shoulder.

He struck, closed his hand around a wrist or a thin forearm and twisted, throwing whoever he'd grabbed. They went down, but he felt them tapping on his bicep even after they'd hit the ground. A steady rhythm: three slow, three long, three slow.

SOS.

Clint froze. Faintly, he heard a voice: someone shouting at him. He couldn't tell what they were saying, but he smelled Nat's shampoo, and relaxed.

He trembled. He couldn't quite stop it. He shook his head and yelled, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

Her hand on his arm again. He'd always been good at sending morse code, but putting together long strings of letters, shaping them into words, was harder. He focused, swallowing more bile, trying not cough. His eyes were still watering.

 _Safe_ , she spelled out. _Follow. Hospital._

There was so much more he wanted to know, but he made do with that. Helped her up and started after her. She rushed him, and he trusted to Nat and moved at double time through the darkness, hoping he didn't run into anything. He stopped when she pulled on him, moved forward slowly when she indicated, and discovered a stair case.

He walked through a world impossible to navigate, trusting Nat's eyes and ears, waiting for another explosion to rock everything.

And he kept going.

**  
Afternoon

"Good Hulk," Tony said, edging around the Hulk, trying to get between him and the scientist he'd cornered -- wrecking numerous doorways in the process. "Goooood Hulk."

"He's not a dog, Stark," Steve snapped, circling from the other side.

"Don't be cranky," Tony said in a singsong tone. "Hulk doesn't like it when you're cranky."

They'd shut off the alarm JARVIS had been sounding, figuring that might help Banner's nerves.

Hulk took one lurching step toward the scientist, who screamed and shoved himself farther into the corner. "He did this," Hulk roared, so loud Tony could feel it reverberate in his chest.

"Okay," Tony said cheerfully. "That's great! You've found the culprit. We'll, uh, we'll just take care of it from here."

The Hulk's eyes narrowed, and he jumped at the scientist, stopping just above him and growling down. Steve was there almost as quickly, shield spinning up between them.

"Easy, big guy, easy," Tony said. Heart in his throat, he stepped forward and put a hand on the Hulk's forearm.

The Hulk whipped around to glare at him.

"Easy," Tony said again.

The Hulk winced, turning away. A groan came from him, as if his very bones were rubbing together. And then he began to shrink.

"Thank God," Steve breathed.

"You," Tony said to the scientist, "are going to have an awesome severance package."

**  
Mid-Afternoon

It took hours for the level to be shut down and the air cleared of the liquid that had become gaseous. Nat got updates from the Tower's nurse, and knew Clint had been shipped off to the nearest hospital. She hoped someone was with him who could do morse code: he was helpless, otherwise.

She was the first one able to leave the mess at the Tower and get to the hospital.

"We're glad you're here," the doctor said, escorting her swiftly down the hall. "I gave him a sedative; his heart rate was too high, his nerves shot. He's awake, but calmer."

Nat didn't punch the doctor. He was only doing his job. Sedating Clint was probably even the right thing to do. Heck, she'd have done it.

But it was _different_ when she did it. She wouldn't then leave him alone and vulnerable.

"We're hoping you can communicate with him somehow...?"

"Yes," she bit out.

Clint was a in room by himself, strapped to the bed. Nat whipped around to the doctor and didn't even have to say anything. He held his hands up, taking a step back. "He kept panicking. Trying to leave or accosting the nurses."

Nat throttled her anger down. "What does he need to know? How bad is the damage?"

"We got all the glass out of him," the doctor said, clearly relieved to be discussing what they'd done right. "His lungs aren't in any danger, though we've been trying to keep him on oxygen just for good measure. We don't really know what that gas will do. His hearing -- I doubt it's permanent. It could come back any time, and it shouldn't take more than forty-eight hours."

Forty-eight hours blind and deaf. Nat nodded. "I'll tell him."

The doctor left shortly thereafter, giving her privacy with Clint.

Clint, who still didn't know two people had been standing at the foot of his bed, discussing him. His eyes were open, and every so often he pulled at one of the cuffs. The heart monitor beeped regularly; the drugs, she guessed, were keeping him calm. Even so, it wasn't a _slow_ heartbeat.

Nat stepped forward and put a hand on his bare foot. They'd pulled his clothes off to get to his knees, and he was once more in a hospital gown.

Clint jumped. The heart monitor went frantic for a moment. Nat tapped SOS once more; it was the most recognizable thing she could think of. He went still. "NAT?" he shouted.

 _Yes_ , she tapped back, and slid her hand up his leg so he could track her progress. Up his hip, all the way to his shoulder. Carefully, she unbuckled the strap holding his wrist to the bed, then leaned across and undid the other one.

He brought his hands up, finding her arms, her shoulders, her face and hair. Apparently assured it was her, he let his arms drop again. "HOW BAD IS IT?"

He knew morse code, but he'd always been able to write letters out on paper as they came through. He wasn't a big reader, Nat knew. Struggled with it, sometimes, though he went to great lengths to pretend otherwise.

Once upon a time, Coulson had helped with that.

She parsed the message she needed to say down to the shortest words possible. _Ears get better. 48 hours._

"THIS ISN'T FUCKING FUNNY," he shouted. His lashes were spiked together, like his eyes had been wet at some point.

She squeezed his arm. She agreed.

His pupils were tiny. His lids kept sagging. The drugs, she knew. She sat down on the bed beside him, tucking herself close.

"WAS IT AN ATTACK?"

 _No_.

"AN ACCIDENT?"

 _Yes._ She paused, then added, _Bruce said you did good._ She could give him the details later. When he could hear again.

"I DIDN'T GET KILLED, ANYWAY." He rolled his head until it rested against her.

She could feel the tension start to ease out of him. He spoke again, quiet this time. "There's no distractions, Nat. Nothing to think about except... what I think about. Our line of work doesn't lend itself well to happy thoughts."

She petted him, not sure what else to do.

"Don't let me live like this. You make it happen, and you do it so one no suspects you, and you walk away. I know you can do that."

Nat closed her eyes tight. She tapped out again, _48 hours_.

**  
Early Evening

They'd allowed him to go home. He could only assume that was a good sign. He even heard the screech of tires at one point, while he'd been in a wheelchair (as if he was crippled as well as blind and deaf, but the hospital insisted) waiting for his ride, Nat with her hand on his shoulder. He turned toward the noise, hoping to hear something else. All he heard was the blood pounding in his ears.

It was like being locked in isolation. He'd been locked in isolation before, with nothing but your thoughts and memories to keep you company. It was the best way he knew to drive someone insane.

Riding in the car made him think about riding in the back of the taxi, going to identify his mother's body.

Being taken from his brother at the circus, and sent to the first foster home he'd later run away from. (But he'd found his brother, he reminded himself, trying for lighter thoughts.)

Riding with Loki in the back of the car, listening to him talk about his plans for the world. Clint had believed, heart and soul, that they were doing the right thing.

By the time the car he and Nat rode in stopped, he'd broken out into a cold sweat. The car shook. A breeze spilled over his face, and he realized someone had opened his door. Nat's hand landed on his shoulder. He stood, following her out.

Isolation, surrounded by people.

And if it wasn't Nat? If she'd gotten out of the car, and someone had grabbed her, and this was a trap? He hesitated, and she tugged him onward. Of course it was Nat. He had to believe that, or he'd lose it completely.

Forty-eight hours.

When they got to his apartment, she put pills in his hand. He felt for the shape of them, recognized the usual pain pills for his eyes, the antibiotics that probably had to do with the glass they'd pulled out of his hands, arms, and knees, and something else. He held it up.

Nat tapped code onto his arm. _Calm you_.

Clint thought about it, then nodded and gave the space in front of him a wry smile. "I could probably use it, huh?"

Nat squeezed his arm. He swallowed all the pills.

Forty-eight hours.

**  
Evening

In the end, Clint ended up on the couch in the community room. People stopped by to touch him, reminding him he wasn't alone. His hearing started to come back; if someone bellowed at him, he could make out a few words, at least. The bone-deep terror that even the sedatives couldn't kill started to ease.

The couch dipped. Clint rolled his head to one side. He felt floaty.

Tony's voice broke through the haze, coming through the cotton in his ears as if from a distance. "How's it going, Helen Keller?"

Clint lifted one hand and gave a thumbs' up.

"Got some movies to cheer you up, when you can hear again. _Scent of a Woman_ and _See No Evil, Hear No Evil._ "

He gave another thumbs' up.

Tony patted his chest. The couched un-dipped.

Clint went back to being floaty.

****

 

Author's note: Much like Clint, I'm spending the day in the hospital, waiting. (For my sweetie, who's having shoulder surgery.) You know what would make it better? Feedback! :D


	10. Part Two: Day 15-21

Day Fifteen  
Morning

His hearing had returned as if he'd never gone deaf.

Step forward, step back, kick right, strike left, flow into a roundhouse and stop. Breathe. Check his heart rate: the doctors said high blood pressure would make his eyes worse, but anaerobic exercise was all right. He couldn't be an invalid forever. Since apparently explosions happened around here and he could lose his damn hearing at any moment as well, doing what he could while he could had become a lot more important.

Everything felt fine. Clint took another breath and broke into the next form as Nat called it out. They began the ritualized fight again, one kata spilling into another. It felt good to work again.

**  
Late Morning

Nat leaned on the kitchen island on the community floor, spooning cereal into her mouth rapidly and skimming the news on a tablet.

Nearby, Clint nursed a cup of coffee. "By the Allfather," he mumbled, "Swive me." A huff of laughter shook his chest.

Nat glanced up at him. "What?"

He turned toward her, expression shifting to innocence. "What?"

"I asked--" She paused, eyes narrowing. He looked _too_ innocent. "I don't want to know."

He smirked.

**  
Early Afternoon

"Hey," Pepper said, padding down the stairs to Tony's workshop. Theirs was the only apartment with two floors, but Tony needed the space. Needed it to invent, to pace, to move. To breathe. "What are you working on?"

Something circular, too big to have to do with the arc reactor in his chest. Tony straightened from his hunched-over posture above the table, wincing as he put a knuckle in the small of his back and pressed. "Echolocation. I was thinking, you know, it might be even better than audible archery for the visually impaired marksman." He flicked at two hearing aids, mostly dismantled. "If I can just figure out how to clarify the signal, differentiate it from other sounds..." He sighed and tapped the circular tech. "Figured this could go around the neck to send out a sonic frequency that'll bounce off objects and come back to these." The hearing aids, again. "That'll give him a head-level idea of what's where."

Pepper chewed her lip, glancing from the items to Tony and back again. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the manic look that had carried him so far was gone, replaced by weariness. She slid her hand across his shoulders, soothing. "Tony... you might not be able to help him."

"Yeah," Tony said, looking at her sharply, as if she'd caught him doing something wrong. "I know that. I just thought..." He gestured to the gear like it didn't matter. "I'm just tooling around. You know me."

"Better than you know yourself," Pepper murmured. Then, louder, "I just don't want you to be disappointed. He's not a machine."

"Machine," Tony mumbled, gaze far away. "Machine. You know, the human body is basically just one complex machine." He jumped up, striding across the floor. "I just -- I have to figure out--" He stopped, halfway to the other table, and looked back at her. "I lost it."

"You'll get it back," Pepper told him firmly. "Come eat something. And get some sleep."

**  
Afternoon

"Jerry, I realize the Hulk destroyed eighteen months worth of work," Bob said, adjusting his Human Relations plaque fussily. He took his hand away and folded it with the other in front of his belly. "But you did sign a waiver when this became Avengers Tower releasing all liability for any Avengers-related activities. It's a shame that it was your device that caused the explosion, but I'm afraid you do _not_ have legal recourse for the Hulk's actions."

But Bob alerted the lawyers just in case.

**  
Day Sixteen  
Afternoon

"How's it going?" Tony asked, swinging into Bruce's private lab. Bruce had refused to step foot back in the public labs. He was trying not to think about what had happened, and what _could_ have happened if Clint hadn't shouted at him to embrace it. That was key, he needed to remember. If he chose to let the other guy out, he could keep some limited control.

Bruce stepped away from the microscope he was peering through -- Steve had been kind enough to give him a blood sample -- and to another microscope, which he peered through. "Well... you got the electromagnetic pulses going, so the 'bots will attract each other, and that's good. But now the IPS cells aren't dividing and forming colonies, let alone differentiating properly. I'm not sure if it's something in the protocol that needs tinkering, or if we're asking for too much cell specificity from the colonies."

Tony hovered over his shoulder, peering down as if he'd be able to see what was going on with his bare eyes. "What about growth hormones?"

Bruce considered it, nodding. "Might work. We'd have to be careful. The FGF can have non-specific effects and too much revascularization would be just as bad as none. We can't have invading blood vessels."

"So..." Tony wandered the lab, picking up an empty vial and tossing it from hand to hand. "We be careful."

Bruce made a non-committal noise.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Who?"

Tony just looked at Bruce.

Bruce pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on his shirt. "No. I figure I'm the last person he wants to see. I shouldn't even be in the city, Tony."

"Should is a four letter word. Talk to him." Tony tossed the vial to Bruce, who caught it quickly. "And I'm telling you. Growth hormones. Growth hormones solve everything." He breezed out as rapidly as he'd breezed in, leaving Bruce standing with a vial and feeling a little worn out.

Perhaps if he looked at one of the other FGF family proteins... Even a tiny dose of progesterone might help with the cellular transplant taking hold...

**  
Day Seventeen  
Afternoon

"I would blindfold you," Tony said with a smirk, "But..."

"Very funny, Stark," Clint muttered.

Steve couldn't decide if he was amused or appalled, and looking at Clint's expression didn't help. Clint looked like he was having the same problem.

The elevator doors opened onto the audible archery range and he stepped off, drawing Clint with him and then to a halt. He'd seen Natasha do this often enough to know what Clint needed. "The room is three thousand square feet. There's--"

"Stop that," Tony barked at him, and shot him a dirty look. "If you tell him what it looks like, he won't have a chance to figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Clint asked.

Steve held his tongue, glancing at Tony for direction. It was Tony's baby, after all; they were just using the range (almost complete) because it was an open, unfamiliar space.

"Here, Clint, we heard about your kinky god-sex, so I got you a kinky collar." Before Steve could stop Tony, Tony reached up and clipped it around Clint's throat.

Clint grabbed Tony, hand clamped on his windpipe. Wall dust grated under their boots. "What the hell are you doing, Stark?"

Tony wheezed.

"It's all right," Steve said quickly, a hand on Clint's arm. He probably should have pulled Clint away, but... well, he'd wanted to throttle Tony a time or two, as well. "Tony made this echo-- what did you call it?"

"Echolocation," Tony rasped out.

"Right, that. He had this idea that you might be able to find your way better if there were echoes. Something about other blind people learning...?"

Clint let go. Tony coughed and rubbed his throat. "Here," Tony croaked, "put these in your ears."

"They'll help with the echolocation," Steve explained. He wasn't sure how that would be beneficial; the room already echoed, and it seemed to him this would only make that worse. But Tony wanted to try, and it was Clint's choice.

After a minute, Clint held out his hand and Tony put the hearing aids into it. Carefully, Clint worked them through his fingers, sussing out shape and use, and then fit the first one to his ear. Steve stepped back and watched him. Clint took a hesitant step forward, twitched as if something had bit him, and then stepped again. Within a few minutes he was walking across the floor, still slow but picking up speed.

"This might just work," Tony said, grinning and rubbing his throat.

"It might," Steve agreed cautiously.

**  
Evening

"What did you do to your face?" Nat asked, frowning down at Clint.

He took the icepack away from his bloody nose. "If Tony ever says 'here, Nat, put on this echolocation thing and walk blindly around the room,' tell him no."

**  
Day Eighteen  
Late Morning

"Really?" Darcy said into her phone, a little disbelieving. "You're okay with it?"

On the other end, Jane sounded a little defensive. "I'm doing good work here! I'm not going to drop everything just because he's on the planet. There's not even any way to tell _when_ he's going to be on the planet -- I don't think Asgardian time and Earth time quite match up. Sure, he can fly fast when he is here, but not fast enough for a dinner date."

"Or a booty call," Darcy sighed.

"Exactly. And the whole monogamy thing went _right_ over his head. He kept talking about shield- and hand maidens."

Darcy snickered and offered her key card to the parking attendant, who let her in.

"We'll try when I'm actually there," Jane continued. "And in the meantime, he can sleep with whoever he wants to."

"Which means you can, too, right?" Darcy asked suggestively.

"Well..." There was a smile in Jane's voice.

"Let me ask this, though." Darcy pulled into her parking spot, hanging her permit on her rear view mirror. "I heard Clint say he tasted like peppermint schnapps. Is that true?"

"Please," Jane scoffed. "More like... coffee ice cream."

**  
Early Afternoon

"Okay," Steve said, frowning at Clint's shirt. "Now they're just being silly."

"What?" Clint smoothed his hands over it. "What's it say?"

"It says, 'Stark/Rogers 2016.'"

Clint grinned. "Yeah, I know. I just wanted you to say it out loud."

**  
Afternoon

Bruce lingered in the community kitchen doorway, unsure of his welcome. He hadn't spent much time with either Clint or Nat since the other guy had nearly torn Clint to pieces. The two of them were in the kitchen, chatting about the merits of making grilled cheese sandwiches with butter versus oil.

"You are _so_ American sometimes," Nat said, giving Clint an exasperated look.

"What? What's that supposed to mean? Butter is better, that's all I'm saying."

"He's right," Bruce said hesitantly. Both heads swiveled toward him. Nat gave him a mildly disgusted look, and Clint held one hand toward him as if he was making an excellent point. "Butter tastes better," Bruce continued bravely.

"You're both cardiac arrests waiting to happen," Natasha said. "And if I'm doing the fixing, I'm going to fix it however I want."

"Do you want one, Bruce?" Clint offered. "I can ask that, because I don't have to make it."

"I'm going to spit in yours," Natasha said serenely, "and you won't even know."

Bruce edged farther into the room, easing his way up to the kitchen island where Clint sat. "How are things? Your hands look... painful."

"It's actually not so bad," Clint told him easily. "Most of it's healing up pretty quick, and there's only a couple cuts on the heels of my hands that will take longer. Turns out glass from vials cuts deep if it can, but mostly just crunches under too much weight."

His forearms were no longer wrapped like a burn victim's, but just bandaged in patches. His palms were still wrapped completely, but his fingers were free. Only one finger had a band-aid: it had Mjolnir on it. The splint on his pinky was gone.

"Did you still want to know about... about what you asked that day?" Bruce asked, glancing toward Nat.

"Oh! Yeah." Clint straightened up. "Spill. Wait -- Tony's not in the room, is he?"

"Just us," Nat told him.

"All right. Spill."

"I did some research, and there's no reason to believe an Asgardian can impregnate a human male. I don't know about diseases, but I can ask Thor when he gets back...?"

Clint nodded. "Please."

"Okay. And-- well, the research I did involved mostly reading up on Norse mythology, but given mythology has Loki as dead, I'm not sure how well it can be trusted. I could take a blood sample and run some tests?"

Clint pondered that, eyes moving down and to one side as if he could actually see. "That's probably a good idea. And for the rest, I guess I'll talk to Thor too, then. I think Darcy was just pissed at me."

Bruce nodded, then quickly said, "Yeah," when he remembered Clint couldn't see. Quiet fell, broken by the sizzling of grilled cheese sandwiches in oil. "I wasn't sure you'd want to see me, after... everything."

Clint gave a little laugh. "Bruce, I was possessed by a god, slept with a god, and now I've talked down a god. I'm feeling pretty damn good."

"The -- the other guy isn't--"

"Close enough, don't crush my happy." Clint waved a hand.

"Lunch," Natasha declared, and set a plate down in front of Clint.

**  
Day Nineteen  
Late Evening

"So," Clint said slowly, standing in the doorway of the den. He'd heard Thor just a moment before, talking. "How'd it go?"

Thor sounded bewildered. "In truth, there are more complexities to human relationships than I'd realized. Jane says that, as we are not on the same continent, we should see other people."

"That's good," Clint said, relieved. "Now if you get together with any other girls, make sure they don't think it's a date."

"But the important thing," Tony interjected, "is, did you get Clint preggers or give him Asgardian clap?"

"How the hell did you find out about that?" Clint yelped, turning toward Tony's voice.

"I have my sources." Tony sounded utterly smug. "It is, after all, my building."

**  
Day Twenty  
Late Morning

They'd finished their morning kata, but neither had yet bothered to shower. Somehow, word of the great experiment had gotten out, and the gym had slowly filled with the rest of the Avengers, even Thor, who would be leaving that afternoon for Asgard, and Darcy, who'd stayed late just to watch.

Nat glanced at Clint, at the sweatshirt he wore to keep his muscles warm, at the shooting gloves he hadn't worn in three weeks, at the bow he held in one hand. It wasn't his usual bow. It didn't have the gears and wheels; it was simply a recurve hunting bow, meant for practice. Fury'd had it sent up at Clint's request.

"Okay," Clint said, fitting an arrow to it by touch. He faced the targets they'd put up; everyone else stood behind him.

"To your right, thirty degrees," Nat said.

He drew, aimed, and shot. The arrow cracked into the wall.

"You hit three feet high, two and a half to the left," Nat told him.

He frowned. Itched at his chin. "Try again." Once more, he drew back an arrow.

"A foot above the ground, ten -- no, nine degrees to your left." She hoped.

He shot.

The arrow cracked into the wall.

"If I may," Pepper said delicately, "your strength was in your aim, not your shooting. Someone else can't really aim for you."

Nat watched Clint closely. That he wanted to do something was hopeful, she thought. That he couldn't do this was not. She wanted him to succeed, even if it would never work outside the gym.

He scratched at something on the bow, face down.

"Here," Nat said suddenly, lurching into motion toward him. "Try this." She stepped in front of him and then stepped back, her spine fitted neatly to his chest, her head even with his in her heeled boots. "Shoot around me." Then, saying nothing and keeping still, she looked at the target.

He drew the bow, fingers brushing her cheek. She closed the eye nearest the arrow, despite the logic that dictated it wouldn't hit her. Clint shifted. The point moved. The arrow flew.

It hit the edge of the target with a dull _thunk_. Everyone else erupted into cheers. Clint kissed the back of her head and murmured, "Do it again."

**  
Even Later Morning

"Hey, Thor!" Darcy called. "Wait up!"

Thor paused in the hall, turning to smile at her. Tony and Bruce paused with him, a little farther down. "Darcy!"

"Yeah, uh huh." She didn't slow down as she neared, but wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and pulled herself up (he bent down a little, as it seemed that was what she wanted), and kissed him soundly. He opened his mouth when he felt her tongue, and then thought that particular automatic reflex was likely to get him in trouble.

She dropped back to her feet, looking thoughtful and licking her lips.

"Ahh..." He hadn't witnessed this greeting between friends before.

"Skittles. Interesting," she said, and walked off.

Thor looked at his companions for some idea of what had just happened.

Bruce's eyebrows rose. "Skittles?"

Thor offered a confused shrug.

"Wow," Tony said. "Being an Asgardian god doesn't suck, huh?"

****


	11. Part Two: Day 22-46

Day Twenty-Two  
Afternoon

They got pretty good at shooting. They could even do it in motion. "Now," Nat would say, freezing for an instant by his shoulder, resting her face against him. He'd figure where she was looking and shoot as she moved off. Most of the time, he got within three feet.

He taught her not to look with her eyes, but her head. She was a quick student.

It was a fabulous party trick, and he knew it. But wouldn't do much for anything else.

**  
Day Twenty-Three  
Morning

Steve had brought Clint to the archery range again. Tony was practically giddy, though after being up all night to put the finishing touches on the gear -- there'd been some kind of electrical glitch Tony'd had to work through -- Steve figured he was just punch drunk.

"If this is another echolocation attempt--" Clint said warningly.

"No," Steve said. "This one I even understand, and it should work. You need the layout of the room, first." He walked with Clint around the perimeter of the range, talking him through as Tony practically bounced along behind them, urging them faster.

"Go get yourself some breakfast," Steve told Tony at last, but Tony only scoffed and accused Steve of wanting to start without him.

Still, Steve refused to let Tony hurry them. He walked Clint over every inch of the place, until he was sure Clint had the layout and wasn't going to go tripping over a half wall. Again.

"Done?" Tony asked impatiently.

"Done," Steve said.

Tony took Clint's hand, slapped a bow into it, and stepped back. "Audible archery, Im Dong Hyun. Let's do it."

Clint glowered at Tony. "You know he isn't actually blind, right?"

Steve looked between them, lost.

Tony patted Steve's arm. "Don't worry about it. Let's go, Clint. Audible archery! It should be pretty self explanatory."

"But in case it's not," Steve said, with some irritation toward Tony's blase attitude, "all the targets make noise."

"Huh," Clint said. He didn't sound convinced, but Tony handed him a quiver and he shrugged it on, anyway.

Steve and Tony withdrew toward the elevator, and Tony called out, "Start the program, JARVIS!"

The first target whirred to life. Clint fitted an arrow and shot almost before the sound reached them, striking less than a foot to the left. It kept whirring, and Clint fired again -- shattering the plastic this time.

"Okay," Tony said in an undertone. "We need better padding to absorb the arrows."

Steve nodded, smiling as he watched Clint drop into a ready stance and start moving warily around the room, head tipping this way and that as he listened. It didn't take long for him to differentiate between the targets that were close with those that were far away, and after about five minutes Tony called out, "JARVIS, load the engagement program."

Dummies sprung up, some of them shouting, some of them barely making noise as they "walked" across the floor. If they tagged Clint, he'd feel it.

Over the next twenty minutes, Clint got tagged seven times. In the twenty minutes after that, the number dropped to three.

By the time Tony shut the program off, Clint was sweaty, grinning, arrows strewn across the room. "How long did this take you?" he asked, wiping wet hair back off his forehead.

Steve let Tony answer, rocking back on his heels, pleased with what they'd done.

"We've been at it for a week. Maybe more," Tony said. "I guess two. It's just a little thing I thought you could use."

Clint held out one hand, and after a minute Tony clasped it. Clint pulled him closer, reaching up to pat his shoulder. "You did good. Both of you. Steve...?"

"Here."

Clint reached around, finding Steve's shoulder as well. "Thanks." There was a life in his eyes that hadn't been there, not in full force, in weeks.

Steve grinned. "You're welcome."

**  
Day Twenty-Five  
Afternoon

"All right," Bruce said, releasing the bunny back into its cage, injection over. It tended toward epilepsy; if Bruce and Tony had succeeded in what they hoped, the nanobots would repair the brain tissue, and the epilepsy would subside. It would be a medical breakthrough in another ten years, after the official testing had been done and the FDA had approved it.

They both watched the bunny hop around its cage.

"How long before we know?" Tony asked.

Bruce straightened and shrugged. "A week maybe. Maybe more, maybe less. Hard to say. When will the nanobots come out?"

"Come out? Of the rabbit? No, no, you have to draw them out with a magnet."

Bruce stared at Tony. "Tony... you can't just rip something out of a living creature's body. No one will agree to that treatment."

Tony looked a little put out. "It works in electronics. I didn't think about tissue."

Bruce rubbed his face. "Back to the drawing board."

**  
Day Twenty-Nine  
Afternoon

Clint made his way into the war room -- on yet another floor, this one with weapons and, most notably, a hangar -- with cautious curiosity, wondering what could be so important that they couldn't talk about it in the den.

"There's a table five steps in front of you," Nat said sotto voce, "and an empty chair straight ahead."

There was almost always an empty chair nearby; he'd noticed they'd all stopped sitting in the ones nearest the door, and often wondered if it was for his ease of movement. No one said anything, and he didn't ask, but he noticed.

"Thor's at the other end of the table, pacing," Nat continued.

That was some surprise. Thor had been in Asgard, presumably doing Asgardian things, for the better part of a week. Clint had missed their television sessions, though he'd filled his time in the audible archery.

Clint found his chair and sat down, resting his hands on the edge of the table to measure how far away he was, stretching his legs out cautiously lest he kick someone. Nat sat beside him.

"Friends," Thor began, "I come bearing bad tidings." Thor took a breath. There was a long pause. No one said anything, and Clint held his silence as well, wondering what was happening. Then Thor spoke again. "There is no easy way to say this, so I shall say it simply. Loki has escaped his bonds in Asgard. We know not where he has gone, or who may have helped him. I fear the worst."

The world rushed around him. There was a roaring in his ears, and a deceptively gentle voice murmured, "You have heart."

Clint laid his hands flat on the table and pressed himself to his feet. "You're telling me," he said, slowly and clearly, "that we handed him over to your people, and you _lost him_?"

"There is evil in Asgard," Thor said heavily. "We do not--"

"Explain to me," Clint snapped, "why you didn't just shoot him."

"He is of the royal family," Thor objected. "We had hoped he would pay for his crimes and come back to us, not--"

"Come back to you? You meant to release him this whole time?"

Nat's hand landed on his arm. "Clint--"

He yanked away from her. "No. This is not okay. This is not some guy who copied Tony's tech and might use it for bad things, this is _Loki_ , who made a deal with an alien devil and brought war on our world, and he's _loose_?"

Thor, again. "We didn't mean for this to happen."

"Of course you didn't mean for this to happen!" Clint bellowed. "But it happened! Do you people have any idea where he is, or where he's gone?"

There was a long silence. Then Thor said, "No."

"No. _No_. Of course not. Do you have _any_ useful information?"

"I know that you're angry," Thor began. Clint scoffed, but Thor continued. "And you have every right to be. We are doing our best. I thought the Avengers should know, as well."

Clint pushed his chair back, fumbling past it toward the doorway. "Your best clearly isn't good enough," he practically snarled over his shoulder.

"Clint." Bruce, and footsteps coming quickly after him. "They didn't mean to lose him. We probably wouldn't have been able to hold him any better."

Clint was forced to stop walking at the elevator. He hammered the button and waited, impatiently.

"We'll find him," Bruce said quietly.

"Yeah?" The elevator pinged. "Before or after he finds us?"

**  
Evening

Clint stood in front of his elevator, staring where he thought Tony was.

"Figured you could use a drink, after the little fiasco in the war room," Tony said. "So I brought a bottle of tequila and margarita mix." Glass bottles clinked.

With a snort, Clint stepped aside. "In that case, come on in."

**  
Later Evening

JARVIS let Bruce into Clint's apartment without argument. A little concerned, Bruce walked in, following the sound of Clint's voice to the den.

"--still having flashbacks in the morning about being taken over by an alien force, and then Thor comes back and--"

"Clint?" Bruce asked, hesitant.

Clint whipped around, a little unsteady on his feet. "Bruce!"

"Who..." Bruce looked around to be sure, then continued, "are you talking to?"

"Tony." Clint gestured to an empty chair.

"He's not--"

Bruce didn't even finish the sentence before Clint was cursing. "Son of a _bitch_."

"I'm in the kitchen!" Tony called. A blender roared to life.

**  
Night

Thor was the last to arrive, and when he got to Clint's apartment he found everyone piled in the living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace. They were all in the sofa pit, an inset area lined with couches and pillows that looked like one of Loki's debauched parties, except right now everyone was dressed.

Clint leaned back against Nat, who had wrapped her arms around his chest and her legs around his waist. His feet were propped up on Bruce's lap. Bruce was leaning against Tony, who had Pepper tucked under his arm and was half-sprawled across Steve.

"Come on in," Tony said, waving a hand. "We're all helping Clint cope."

**  
Day Thirty  
Morning

Darcy walked in and froze.

There they were. Blissfully asleep, sprawled and tangled like a bunch of Avengers kittens across the couches and cushions, only with more muscles and ridiculously hot. A half-empty peppermint schnapps bottle sat next to Thor, and a completely empty bottle of brandy beside Tony. She wasn't sure what to do, so she did the only thing that made sense.

She whipped out her phone, took a picture, and cross posted it to Tumblr and Facebook.

**  
Day Thirty-Four  
Late Morning

The lull that Clint had gotten used to had broken. His pattern -- get up, do katas with Nat and sometimes Bruce, who was learning, then practice in the audible archery before Darcy came to help him with whatever he needed -- had been shattered. First Nat had been put back on assignment: she'd been gone for two days. Then the Avengers had been called out.

Not all of them. Thor was back in Asgard, and Bruce flat-out refused, and obviously Clint wouldn't have done any good. So while Steve and Tony suited up, he got his bow and took himself to the range.

A half hour of practice was all he could do before his heart rate started to rise, which meant pressure would build behind his eyes. He hadn't been cleared for that sort of exertion yet. He slung his bow over his shoulder and went up to the community level, not because if anyone returned they'd check in there first, but just because there was better food in the kitchen. Really.

He was halfway through a sandwich -- he'd given up on putting mayo on it when he opened the third bottle and it _still_ wasn't right -- when a voice curled over his shoulder.

"Well. I didn't expect to see you here."

Clint's heart stuttered. He put his sandwich down slowly, taking deep breaths, reminding himself it wasn't real.

"I thought you'd be out with the others. Fighting the hordes. Kind of them to create a distraction, isn't it?"

He tried to focus on the floor beneath his bare feet, on the counter under one hand. The counter was real. The voice was not.

Breath tickled the back of his neck. "Where's the scepter?"

He didn't care if it was a flashback or a -- a -- hallucination. He drove his elbow backward, and felt it strike. The man -- the flashback memory -- didn't so much as flinch, but a hand slammed down on his shoulder and spun him around. Fingers grabbed him by the neck and lifted, choking him.

"I already got all the use I needed from you, you sniveling worm," Loki hissed. "Now tell me where the scepter is!"

An alarm sounded through the Tower, and Jarvis's voice came to life. "Warning: intruder, community level. Advise all humans to remain clear. Advise Tower evacuation. Help is on the way."

Loki chuckled. "I suppose I can't cloak from the computer forever. But long enough. Tell me what I want to know."

Not a flashback. Not a hallucination. Clint struggled to breathe, grabbing Loki's wrist and taking some of his own weight. He kicked, but it was like kicking a wall.

Loki's grip slackened. "I can make this simple. If you tell me where the scepter is, I won't rip you limb from limb before I kill you. I might even leave you alive, and take you with me again."

With the lessened grip, Clint could talk. He croaked out, "Fuck you."

"Your choice." Loki flung him.

He hit the refrigerator -- he knew that cold, hard feeling -- and crashed to the ground. The alarm was still going off, masking Loki's steps. Clint shoved to his feet, putting his back against the fridge, sliding along the floor.

To be cornered but protected on two sides? Or to be free but vulnerable? Being protected on two sides wouldn't help him against a god. He stepped away from the corner, bellowing, "Jarvis, shut the alarm off on this floor!" He kept his arms away from his sides, his stance low, turning his head to try and catch Loki's footsteps. Loki's breathing. Anything.

The alarm, thankfully, went silent.

"Now, now, now," Loki said thoughtfully. "What's wrong with you?" The voice was clear across the room. Clint turned and dashed for the doorway. If he could get to his trick arrows, he could at least take the floor out from under Loki--

He slammed into a hard chest. A hand gripped his jaw and pushed him up and away. He tried to escape, tried to twist free, but none of it did any good. Loki didn't do anything, but Clint could feel a cool gaze drift over his face. He worked to breathe.

"How pathetic," Loki murmured at last. "Someone broke such a pretty thing. I always knew humans were fragile. But this..." Loki's free hand covered Clint's eyes.

Clint shouted, kicking at Loki's balls, but it still didn't do any good.

Loki sighed sadly. "I can't even bring myself to torture and kill you. What is the human saying? Blind as a bee? Something like that."

Loki tossed him. Clint landed, rolled, came up to his feet in a crouch.

"Never mind, then. I'll find the scepter on my own." Loki was moving away, blocking the only way out.

Clint felt around himself, found a barstool, oriented himself in the kitchen. Which meant his practice bow was _here_ and his normal arrows were _here_.

"Clint?" Bruce's voice, shouting. Footsteps dashed through the hall. "Clint!"

"Ahh," Loki said with satisfaction. "The monster. How useful."

Clint drew his bow, muscles straining, wishing it were more powerful. "Loki," he snarled. "You aren't getting the scepter."

"And who--" Loki started to say, a laugh in his voice.

That was all Clint needed. He released the arrow toward the words. They cut off, arcing into a scream. The scream broke and Loki swore. Footsteps, too close to be Bruce, started toward him.

Clint had always figured he'd go out in a fight. He drew another arrow, nocking it swiftly, firing again.

The Hulk roared.

Loki grabbed Clint, lifting him off the ground. "You--" he spat, and then stopped.

"Clint _FRIEND_ ," Hulk bellowed, so loud it shook the very building.

Loki hissed. The hand around Clint's throat vanished. Not pulled away, but actually _vanished_. His hands, tight on Loki's wrist and forearm, closed on air. He dropped. This time when the Hulk roared, frustration mingled with anger.

"Easy, big guy," Clint soothed, hoping the others would return soon. "He's gone now."

"Hulk _find him_ ," the Hulk snarled, and boomed off down the hall.

Clint took a breath, and then another, and rubbed the bruises he could feel forming around his windpipe. Ice to bring the swelling down, he told himself, before breathing became an issue. Loki was gone.

**  
Afternoon

Tony paced the SHIELD offices, eager to finish with the debriefing and get back to repairs on JARVIS. He needed to figure out how Loki had held off the alarm for so long. He needed to start rebuilding walls that the Hulk had torn down in attempts to find Loki (who had disappeared again).

He spun on one heel, returning his attention to the group at least temporarily.

Fury was watching JARVIS' recording of where Loki had gone; here in the kitchen with Clint, here in the hangar, here in a lab. A dossier on Loki, much of it hand written in Thor's looping, old-timey script lay open on the table. Bruce, Clint, and Steve sat, Bruce looking morose, Clint and Steve paying attention.

Clint had an icepack against his throat, which was coming up ugly purple and black. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "He was looking for the scepter. He hadn't yet found it, but implied the group causing havoc in New York were with him. Or at least that he was using the distraction."

"They were easy enough to drive off, all things considered," Steve said, still in his gear but minus his helmet.

"Loki was injured," Bruce said. "Clint got him in the face, but he pulled the arrow out like it was nothing."

"I did?" Clint sounded pleased.

"Yeah," Bruce said, sounding disturbed. "It healed."

"Oh." Clint slumped. "At least I got him."

Fury sighed and turned from monitors to face them. "We'll be taking charge of the scepter again. Whatever final tests you wanted to run, you have twenty-four hours to do so. It needs to be held somewhere secure."

**  
Day Thirty-Eight  
Late Morning

"Clint?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Yeah?" Clint said, sounding just a little diffident.

Bruce moved again, swaying on his feet so he didn't make any sound. Clint's eyes tracked him. "You can see?"

A smile fluttered over Clint's face, there and gone again as if afraid to bloom. "A little. Some light, in my peripheral vision. In my better eye." The smile appeared and vanished.

"That's--" Bruce tamped down on his own excitement. "That's good, right?"

"Maybe," Clint said, and laughed a little, as if he couldn't believe it. "Maybe."

**  
Day Forty  
Morning

"Well," Tony said, working alongside Bruce in Bruce's private lab. "If his sight comes back, I guess that means I won't have a guinea pig to test random experimental treatments on." He held up a vial of liquid silver and sighed. "Too bad."

"Yeah," Bruce snorted. "Because your nanobots were going to help _so_ much." He glanced toward the empty bunny cage.

"Hey, they were just the prototype! Downright rude of him to get better on his own, if you ask me."

**  
Day Forty-Two  
Afternoon

Thor was back. He'd arrived the day before, and they spent it watching television and, later, having sex. Since Nat was still on a mission, Thor went with Clint to the doctor's appointment, the first Clint was able to get since light and shadow had begun easing into his vision.

Clint waited impatiently while the doctor sat back, small clicks indicating he was putting his tools away. Thor was a presence at his shoulder, just short of looming.

"It's improving," the doctor said finally. "It's not improving as much as I would like. Or, honestly, had expected."

Thor's hand landed on his shoulder. Clint didn't budge. "What does that mean?" The hope he'd been nursing over the last few days faltered.

"Eyes continue to heal for up to two years, so we won't know anything--"

"But you do know something," Clint said, trying and failing to keep the edge out of his voice. "You're the best eye surgeon in the country. Tell me what you know."

"I'm sorry," the doctor said. "The prognosis hasn't gotten any better. You'll have some light and darkness in your right eye, we can be certain of that now. I see nothing to suggest the other eye is going to improve at all." He paused, then continued, "Agent Barton, you need to seriously think about life as a blind man. There are support groups--"

The rest washed over him. He heard Thor talking, caught the rustle of papers, and when Thor encouraged him upward he stood and went.

**  
Day Forty-Five  
Morning

"What do you mean, you're leaving?"

He stood in the middle of his room -- at least the hole had been fixed -- and contemplated luggage. "I mean I'm leaving."

Darcy paced. He could hear her: back and forth and back and forth. "But -- where will you go?"

"My apartment. Atlanta."

"I can't drive to Atlanta!" Darcy protested. "What will I do?"

Clint laughed softly. "Talk to Tony. I bet he'll give you a job." Tony seemed willing to hand out jobs like candy, and he'd seen Darcy often enough to like her.

"What will _you_ do?"

"Well, that's just it," Clint said quietly. "I have to figure that out."

**  
Day Forty-Six  
Morning

In the end, he packed an iPod, the flip phone Nat had bought him (touch screens only worked when you could see them, but he could feel the buttons on a flip phone), and a bottle of water.

"You sure about this?" Tony asked, getting out of the car and brushing his shoulder against Clint's.

Oriented, Clint reached out and took Tony's elbow. "Yeah."

"You have a place at the Tower. Long as you want it."

And Nat was going to chew him out for leaving before she got back. "I'm not an Avenger, Tony. I could do one thing, and now I can't do that. Time to retire."

"Bullshit," Tony said. "This isn't the circus. You don't just leave. You'll always be an Avenger. One of the first."

"Yeah, well... you make any progress on those cybernetic eyes, you let me know. I might just come back." Wind caught at him, man-made: a train passing by. The crowd surged around them, the babble of voices growing. He still couldn't fly, but that didn't mean he couldn't travel. New York to Atlanta was seventeen hours by ground, but he'd gotten a cubby on the train and he had lots of audiobooks.

"Hey." Tony stopped him. "I mean it. We all do. You know that, right?"

Clint gave Tony a wry smile. "I know, Tony. And I appreciate it. But... I don't want to be trapped there, useless, waiting while everyone else is out endangering their lives. I'm not leaving because I have to." He paused, feeling the words out. "I'm leaving because I want to." The Avengers hadn't forced him out. If anything, they'd given themselves over, even if he'd only be a liability.

They hadn't been taken away, but he needed to find something new.

Tony squeezed his arm. "Let me know when you get into Atlanta, Murdock."

Clint tipped his head toward Tony blankly.

"Really? You always get my references. He's a blind lawyer."

"A real-life one?" Clint asked dubiously.

"Yeah."

"Well, there you go." Clint grinned. "I only get pop culture and archery references."

Tony snorted and switched gears. "You have someone to pick you up?"

"I do."

"All right. If Natasha's pissed, I'm siccing her on you."

Clint laughed. "Understood."

When the train pulled out twenty minutes later, Clint had no way of knowing if Tony stayed to watch or had already left. He liked to think Tony stayed to watch. But he smiled and leaned back against his chair. He was sure Tony had already left.

**  
\--End Part Two  
(Feedback is AWESOME.)


	12. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right guys, that's it! The whole thing's up! Tell your friends, neighbors, and family! And if you liked it, consider checking my original fiction at [www.jbmcdonald.com](http://www.jbmcdonald.com). Or, y'know, leave feedback. Feedback is happy-making. :D

  
It was good to be home. Clint paid the taxi driver who picked him up from the train station to walk him to his apartment, since he'd never bothered counting doors before. He turned on all the lights inside, and strained his peripheral vision looking at the contrast of light and shadow. In a few more days, he knew, that contrast wouldn't be enough. But right now, it was a gift.

He spent the day cleaning, which was a disappointment since he couldn't see if he'd actually gotten everything clean or not, and called the bank to get his account balance. Maybe he could afford a permanent maid, in spite of the fact that SHIELD would have to lay him off, soon. Maybe he should have begged Darcy to come with him.

SHIELD had a pretty good disability package for its field agents, though. He figured they assumed that any agents who survived to need it would have severe disabilities. That pay would help.

The long white cane he and Darcy had ordered online some days ago had arrived. He hadn't wanted to order any such thing, but he couldn't exactly ask for a stranger's elbow every time he needed to go out. The website had suggested any number of support groups to connect with others and learn how to use it, but Clint figured it couldn't be that difficult. He spent the evening walking around his apartment with it, banging it into objects and learning the easiest way to carry it, fold it up, and swing it.

The next evening he braved the pub on the corner. He couldn't be called a regular there, being too often out of the city, but they at least knew him by sight. He walked in, heart beating hard against his chest, and made his way to the bar.

"Hey, man," the bartender said. "What the hell happened to you?"

God, the questions. He suddenly wished he'd stayed at home. He pushed through it and offered a fake smile, folding the cane and tucking it into his coat pocket. "Battlefield injury. We're still waiting to see how much of my vision will come back." He couldn't remember the bartender's name, but the bartender didn't seem to remember his, either. It was all right.

"Guess that makes me king of the dart boards now!" someone shouted from the corner.

Clint laughed, ducking his head, relieved at being treated somewhat normally even as the bartender hissed, "Mikey, shut it."

"Guess it does, Mikey," Clint called back. "Though I'll bet you twenty bucks I can still beat you with a little help, eleven times out of twenty."

"I'll take that bet!"

Clint spent the rest of the night losing money, but getting closer to winning each time Dave stood back to chest with him and looked at the bull's eye.

**

He wasn't entirely surprised to walk into his apartment and find Nat already there. He put his keys on the hook by the door and continued into the living room.

"I can't believe you left without telling me."

He smiled grimly. "You'd have argued with me."

"I would not."

"Because you're such a non-confrontational type." He'd located her by sound, and was positive she was sitting in his easy chair. He sat on the edge of the coffee table facing her.

"You didn't have to run away."

Clint gave a humorless laugh. "I didn't run away. The doctors say it's not likely to get better enough to go back to field work."

"We were doing great shooting together--"

"You can't aim me in battle."

"And the audible archery range--"

"So someone can sneak up behind me and stab me in the back or, worse, try and use me as a hostage?"

Nat was quiet. "This is about Loki, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

Clint winced. "Yeah. It is. He escaped, and the only reason I'm not dead is because Banner -- _Banner_ \-- came and saved my skin. Continuing to do that, pretending like I'm an able bodied field agent when I'm not, it's foolish. If it doesn't get me killed, it'll get someone nearby killed."

Cloth rustled as she stood. "You've put a lot of thought into this."

"Yeah."

She caught his hand and pulled him to his feet. His heart was breaking; he wanted to agree with her, to go back to the Avengers Tower and...

There was the rub. And what?

Nat tugged him down the hall, toward the bedroom. He followed her. It was late and he was tired. Wordlessly they undressed; clothe rustled, and he assume that Nat slipped into one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts (he kept them just for her). Clint put on flannel pants and nothing else. They'd had sex once, and it had been great, and they'd never done it again. But Nat still liked to cuddle.

They crawled into bed, and she wrapped herself around his spine, big spoon to his little spoon -- she didn't like to be trapped on the inside -- and rested her head against his back.

When he woke in the morning, she was gone.

**

A phone alarm went off sometime mid-morning (he still hadn't figured out how to tell the time easily). He scrambled around, finally finding it on the end table next to the easy chair. Nat must have left it, except it kept chiming, "Please say, 'Clint Barton, activate voice authentication' to turn off." Then it would chime, and say it again.

"Clint Barton," he said, wincing at the volume. "Activate voice authentication."

The alarm turned off. He ran his fingers over the phone; it felt like a lightweight iPhone, the type he couldn't use anymore. He'd loved his gadgets.

Then the phone started speaking again. "Voice authentication activated. Please state your name."

He frowned. "Clint Barton."

"Authentication verified." The artificial voice was replaced by Tony's. "Agent Barton, this is your mission, should you choose to accept it: this phone is in the beta-version of testing. It's fully voice automated, and after this the code to unlock it is Juliet Echo Echo Victor Echo Sierra. Or JEEVES, in your voice and only your voice. I suggest you get to know JEEVES. This message will self-destruct in thirty seconds." And, all in one blur, "Five - four - threetwoone." It beeped and went back to the artificial voice. "Message deleted."

He spent the next several hours learning how to use his new phone.

**

It was evening when Clint bit the bullet and decided he needed help. He knew a few of his neighbors -- well enough to nod at them in the hall -- and the rest of his friends were dead, at Avengers Tower, or far flung.

The woman across the hall from him, though -- he thought her name was Ally -- was a single mom with two young, well-behaved kids. He knocked on her door after he was pretty sure she'd be home from work, and waited anxiously while she answered.

"Hi," she said, sounding distracted. "Uh -- Clinton, right?"

"Clint," he said, and offered a quick smile. "Sorry to disturb you, I just... I wondered if you'd be interested in a part-time job. You can bring the kids, and it's just a few nights a week, I hope. Temporary."

"Mom!" someone bellowed from the back. "Jessie keeps eating all the pasta!"

There was a whispered scuffle.

"Sorry about that," Ally said. "You two share nicely, or no one gets pasta!" She laughed nervously. "Kids. You're in the military, aren't you, Clint? No kids?"

"None."

"You're lucky." She said it with wry amusement, and he laughed, rocking back on his heels and looking down. "What's the job?"

He took a breath and sent off his best friendly-guy vibes. "Helping me out. I've been -- deployed. And now I'm back. But--" Admitting it was harder than he'd have liked. Harder than he'd expected. "I can't see. I'm doing okay mostly, but until I get on my feet, I'd hoped... I can't navigate a grocery store or go shopping on my own. But I can wrangle kids. I have great ears."

"Mom," a kid whispered. Clint thought he recognized the male of the two: eight years old or so, and shy. "That's one of the Avengers."

"Don't be silly," Ally told him. "That's our neighbor, Clint. He's in the army. Or-- ah, military. Sorry, I can't ever keep the branches straight. And please excuse him, he watches too much TV."

"Don't worry about it." Any of it; he hoped she took that meaning.

"I'd be happy to help. And you don't have to pay me," she added.

But he knew she worked long hours, and he didn't want to feel guilty about asking favors. So he smiled and insisted, "I'll pay you."

**

He was surprised the first few times Tony called him on the phone, but then he got used to it. He was even more surprised when Steve dropped by to visit, and then Thor, and when Bruce called to let him know the bloodwork had come up clean for both him and Thor, and Bruce didn't think he needed to worry... and then stayed on the phone, asking if everything was all right.

"Your friend was cute," Ally said two days after Steve had been there, while Jessie and Lucas did their homework at his dining room table, right next to his own self-imposed homework.

"Who?" Clint asked absently. Then laughed and said, "You mean Steve."

"See, Mom?" Lucas hissed, and was shushed.

Clint winked toward Lucas, and kept running his fingers over the how-to-read-braille kit he'd gotten from the library. It wasn't easy to learn braille when your fingers were callused from years of shooting a bow. In the meantime, he'd taken the bus to the local community college, and learned that blind students were allowed to record lectures. That might be useful.

"Is that his name? Are the two of you...?"

"Just friends," Clint said, amused.

"Oh." She sounded relieved, but mostly, he thought, because it meant Steve might be a possibility. "I thought maybe, with Don't Ask, Don't Tell rescinded and you being a military man..."

"Nope," Clint said. "But Steve lives up in Manhattan."

Lucas -- he was sure it was Lucas -- squeaked.

"So. What are you studying?" He heard her move his pamphlets around, then apologize and move them back. Not that it mattered; he couldn't read them. Shouldn't have picked them up. "Or thinking of studying. You going back to college?"

He played with the brochures himself. "Thinking about going for the first time, actually. I... ah, I joined the military right out of high school."

Close enough. She didn't need the sordid details.

"Oh! Wow, good for you-- Lucas, eyes on your own work, mister. Sorry, Clint."

Clint wasn't sure what she was apologizing for, but he nodded and murmured something about it being all right. Then she wandered off, running water for dishes. "Sorry," he shouted. "Thought I got them all."

She called back, "Don't worry about it. You're getting better!"

**

He was trying to convince himself he didn't mind having a normal life. Do some homework, go the bar, play darts with the guys (still losing money to Mikey, who was a crack shot, but by a narrower margin), come home. Talk to Bruce or Nat or Steve. Get bizarre packages from Tony that contained electronics he didn't understand but was happy to tool around with. Take the occasional woman home to bed.

He'd taken Michelle home to bed to discover she used to be Michael. Michelle was horrified he hadn't realized it, because apparently she still had a prominent Adam's apple, which Clint couldn't see. But Clint was good at adapting to surprises, and once Michelle realized she had no reason to apologize, they had a _lot_ of fun.

He was hoping she'd be there the next night, but it was only the bartender (who chuckled and said, "Told you she wasn't your type," to which Clint just smiled) and Mikey (who catcalled and made crude comments until Clint started beating him at darts).

Michelle was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in _days_.

Clint got back to his apartment late, blinking to try and see if there was any more light in his peripheral vision than there'd been before. But somehow, it seemed worse.

Trying to keep panic from rising, he hung up his keys and checked to make sure the living room light was on. It wasn't.

He hesitated before flipping it on. He'd left it on. He always left them on. If he could only see a little, then damn it, he was going to see a little. He even slept with the place lit up like Christmas.

He reached past the switch, trying to pretend like nothing was wrong, and felt along the wall toward his bow, leaning in the corner.

He didn't make it before he heard a footstep. Just one. A creak in the floorboards he purposely hadn't fixed. He snatched his bow, bringing it around hard and fast like a staff, slapping at the switch with his other hand at the same time. Sudden light wouldn't hurt him, but if it gave him even a little bit of an edge against his assailant, it was worth it. His cane, the strap looped around his wrist, smacked lightly against his legs.

The bow slammed against someone hard, and that someone began cursing low. Clint twisted, hooking the intruder's feet. The intruder crashed to the floor hard. Clint pinned him, end of the bow against his throat. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

And were there any others? He listened, but over the man's choking and coughing, could hear nothing.

He felt the body heat before he heard the man. Someone yanked at the white cane that hung from his wrist, effectively pulling the bow off his captive. Something sharp stabbed into his shoulder even as he turned, elbow snapping back to hopefully connect with a head.

He missed, but that man's voice called out. "Partial jab!"

"I got it," the man under him croaked, and something stabbed into his calf.

Clint smashed the bow down, heard the crunch of cartilage, whipped it up and around to slam it against the other assailant -- who was, apparently, smart enough to get out of dodge. The bow hit the wall.

Clint stomped on the one he'd already taken down, just to make sure the bastard would _stay_ down, and backed quickly away. He felt at his shoulder, pried loose a syringe with a plunger that hadn't been pushed. Felt at his calf, yanked free another one. That one's plunger had been depressed all the way.

He couldn't tell if the world was swimming already. He needed to get to the door. Get to help. Did he have ten minutes? Depended on what sort of drugs they were using, he guessed. Anywhere from three minutes to ten.

No one moved. He didn't have any arrows, even if he could hear his assailants breathing. The one on the ground moaned. Clint tucked his bow away, breaking down his cane swiftly to use as a bludgeon.

Then he bolted for the door.

A chair smashed into him, sent him spinning off, staggering to catch his balance. He tripped over the fallen man and nearly went crashing to his knees, but scrambled up at the last minute.

"Nice," he panted. "Fuck with the blind guy." Please, _please_ , he hoped they'd come close enough so he could fuck with them. He stood and circled, trying to force movement out of someone. He was running out of time.

He stumbled, and couldn't tell if he tripped or if he was faltering.

Another chair skid into his path as he started toward the kitchen. It hit his shin, and he jumped toward its starting point, swinging his bow in a wide arc.

He didn't catch anyone, though, not even when he twisted, whipping it low to crack at legs.

Except for the injured man whimpering by the door, all was silent.

"What do you _want_?" he snapped out, tripping against the kitchen table. There was a window there, if he could get to it. He could at least call for help.

No one answered.

He judged where he was and hurled the bow toward the window like a javelin. Glass shattered and he followed it through, and _now_ he heard his assailants yelling, feet thundering toward him. He hit the fire escape hard, grabbing the ladder and swinging out over nothingness. He was four stories up. With his feet and hands on the outside rails, he skimmed down it like a fire pole and hit the ground running.

In the dark, he couldn't see anything. He could still hear, though. Something clattered. A small animal, he thought, dashing out of metal: trash bins. He veered that way and slammed into them, twisting to hurl them in his path. Then he just ran, stretching his legs and praying there was nothing in his way.

He fell, smashing into asphalt when he stepped off the curb and into the street, never knowing it was there. He hoped to hear tires screeching, but it was too late at night.

It took two tries to get back to his feet, and before he'd gone five strides someone tackled him. He rolled, kicking at what he hoped was a face, adrenaline carrying him. He yelled, shouting "Help!" and "Call 9-1-1!"

His words were slurring. They let him go. He stumbled up, went another three steps, and crashed to his knees.

"There, see?" someone panted. "You don't gotta beat 'em, Alex. You just gotta stall 'em long enough for the drugs to kick in."

"Whatever, man."

Clint clambered to his feet again, only to realize he hadn't made it. The world didn't go out, though. It just pulled too far away for him to do anything. _Falling down the K-hole,_ he singsonged in his own mind, and didn't struggle when someone picked him up and slung him over a shoulder.

Now there was the screech of tires. He hit the bottom of the van or truck or, hell, U-Haul hard. They drove away.

**

He never quite lost consciousness, though he might as well have. He floated through the world, vaguely aware and utterly uncaring of what went on around him. They stripped him of jacket, shirt, and shoes. They went through his pockets. They tied him to a chair and sat him in the middle of a large, echoing room. Then they ran a blade across his arms, so the blood ran down his fingers and dripped slowly onto the floor.

"Are you sure this'll work?"

"Yeah. Of course. I read it here."

He focused, his mind coming back inch by inch from wherever the ketamine -- he assumed -- had taken it.

"He's in the middle of the summoning circle, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, right there."

"Good." A pause, and then the same voice came closer. "You awake, Agent Barton?"

It was never good when they knew who you were. Clint tried to focus, but either his eyes had gotten worse or the room was too dark to make out shadows and light.

"You should be awake. It's only appropriate. You -- and the scepter -- are going to help us bring gods back to the world. Starting with Loki. We figure you're a pretty good sacrifice."

He knew that voice. Knew it from nightmares, where he made a deal with the devil and found SHIELD's enemies to work with his enemy. "Conner."

"A-yup. It was real good of you to bring us in on that case a while back. Kinda liked you better when you were possessed by a god, though."

Chuckles went round the room.

"You were more reasonable then. Or, rather, just as much of a zealot as ever, but at least you were on our side."

"What do you want?" Keep them talking. That was always rule number one.

"What you hired us for in the first place!" Conner said, voice booming. "To make Loki supreme overlord, or some shit. We've got the scepter -- would've had it several months ago, if you hadn't fucked things up. Killed several of my men. Don't appreciate that."

Clint worked on his hands, trying to loosen the ropes.

"But we found the scepter at last. Got it free from the so-called Avengers Tower during transport when it was headed back to SHIELD. One of Stark's disgruntled employees was key. Jerry. Guess you blew up his lab and got him fired. He didn't appreciate it." Conner paced, boots loud on concrete. Clint kept his neck wobbly, distracting from the fact that he was well enough to inch the loosened ropes, slick with his own blood, over the bulge of one thumb. Four more knuckles to go.

"Turns out," Conner continued, "most religions have some kind of summoning spell. We figure, we'll use this one for Loki, maybe another for someone else. Be nice to have the gods on our side. Most of the spells need blood, though." Clint could hear the smile in Conner's voice. "That's where you come in. We bleed you enough to keep you out of the fight for a while, and you'll have enough blood to run another spell in a few days. That one might kill you, unless Loki decides to make you his meat puppet again."

The rope took skin with it, and he didn't know how someone hadn't noticed his arm flexing, yet. He didn't question his luck, though. He was trying to figure out how many of them there were.

"Don't," a new voice said, and a blade caressed the inside of his almost free elbow.

"You really thought I was stupid enough to let you free yourself?" Conner asked. "You always did think highly of your skills."

They didn't bother to re-tie him. That wasn't a good sign. "Summoning Loki is a foolish idea," he said, pitching his voice to carry to the far corners, wherever they might be. "He's not going to be grateful you've called him back and given him a scepter. It wasn't the scepter that gave him power: it was the tesseract and the aliens, and both of those are gone. You think he'll spare you because you hand me to him? He's seen me. He couldn't care less."

"Whatever. Do we have enough blood?"

"Nearly." The knife against his elbow turned, the blade cutting into flesh. Clint grunted as fresh blood washed down his arm.

"Conner," Clint tried. "Listen to me. You're playing with fire."

As if his words had started it, heat poured from the floor. Even Clint could see light, suddenly, out of his one healing eye. There was the scepter, not five feet from him, or at least the basic shape of it. It made the hairs on his arms stand on end, and his ancestor's hackles attempt to rise.

A form took shape between him and it. Tall, lean, with great horns curving up dangerously from a helmet. Clint looked because he could, while he imagined the others had to cringe away at the sheer brightness. Though he could only see light and shadow, he still thought he saw the slash of teeth where a snarl lay.

Once Loki picked up that scepter, they'd never get it back. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe the scepter, without the tesseract and without the aliens, had no power. He couldn't take that chance.

Clint yanked his loosened hand free, spinning up out of the chair while his guard was blinded by the light. With an idea of where Loki was appearing and where the scepter had been, he twisted behind Loki, dragging the chair still attached to his other arm, and snatched up the scepter.

Fire shot up his hand. Flesh seared. Clint throttled a scream down to a grunt.

"You sniveling upstarts," Loki purred, before Conner even had a chance to start his worship or barter or whatever he thought would work with a god. "You think to drag me here against my will?"

"No -- we work for you, remember? You hired us--"

Clint ducked down on the other side of the table where the scepter had been, trying to wrench his tied hand free. The chair was an aluminum folding chair; it wouldn't break. He didn't have long before someone pointed him out.

The chair wouldn't break, but his skin would. Slick with blood and twisting at the wrong angles, his skin tore, sliding out of the ropes and leaving what felt like half his hand behind.

It didn't matter. He kept low to the ground and ran, scepter skimming out before him like his cane had, while behind him the sound of gurgling death and gunshots rang out.

Maybe he didn't have to take them all out. Maybe he just had to escape.

"JEEVES!" he hissed, reaching a wall and racing along it to a corner. "JEEVES!"

His phone chimed; faint, to his right. He dashed that way. Something flew past his head. Someone grabbed the scepter. He twisted, jammed it forward, felt it spike through guts and catch on bone. He yanked it loose and kept going. "JEEVES, voice authorization! Call--"

Good God, did he really have time to go through the 9-1-1 phone tree to get to Sitwell or Fury?

The chime was closer. The blade of the scepter caught on something soft, and he reached out to find his clothes in a heap. Perfect. He grabbed them up, hoping JEEVES was within. Now he just needed to find a door.

Behind him, people were screaming. Loki, bless his murderous heart, hadn't given them time to explain about the scepter, and apparently hadn't seen Clint grab it, halfway transported as he'd been. There were flashes of light that showed like a fine mist in Clint's peripheral vision, and had to have been blinding to anyone facing them.

He went away from the light, following the wall to the door, doing his best to stay low.

Fresh air.

He had no idea where he was, but they hadn't gone too far. They had to be in the state, still. There were no sounds of city life, and surely _someone_ would have come to check out the explosions, even if it was just gawkers. He ran straight, scepter blade still down to find anything in his path.

He was getting woozy. Too much blood loss. Too many drugs. He hit gravel and kept going. Hit plants and slowed down. Had to be night -- or early morning -- still.

"JEEVES, call -- call -- can you get through to Agent Sitwell?"

"That number is not listed."

"Nat! Call Nat!"

"Dialing."

He was winding, now, through trees and bushes, limping across sharp bark and branches and the occasional blessed moss, the scepter his guide as he swept it from side to side, sussing out a path.

"Clint?" She sounded like she'd been sleeping.

"Nat! I have the scepter!"

"What? How'd you get the scepter? _Loki's_ scepter?"

"Not now!" Clint hissed. There was another explosion, and Clint slammed shoulder-first into a tree. He staggered, then shoved back toward the trunk, feeling its roots surging out of the earth. This would do for the moment. "I have the scepter," he whispered harshly, "and I'm in the forest." This was all weirdly familiar. "I need you to get a lock on my location and _get down here_ to pick me up. Again. I'm still blind, and Loki's here!"

"Loki's -- shit. Hang on."

There was elevator muzak. Actual fucking elevator muzak.

Tony came on. "We're getting a lock on you, buddy, just hang tight."

Clint shook out his jacket and shirt, marking the thump when his phone hit the earth, and wrapped his clothes around the ends of the scepter. He remembered that it glowed -- or parts of it glowed -- and he didn't need that giving him away. He squinted to make out the faintest traces of light coming from it. He thought he'd hidden them all. "It took SHIELD triangulating my position with cell towers," he muttered. "How long will it take you?"

"Please. Your phone has GPS locator in it. I'm on my way, and Thor is en route. Just hold tight."

Another explosion. He skimmed his fingers through the loam, picked up his phone, found his boots and jammed them on, and started more cautiously into the green.

Ivy and bushes caught at him. It was _cold_ out, being nearly winter, with frost on the grass each morning when he woke. His breath would be puffing out white, except that he couldn't see it.

Tony spoke. "How you doing, Legolas?"

There was an odd rushing on the line. "Peachy. You flying?"

"No other way to travel."

"How long?"

"It'll take me an hour to get there. Thor's pretty speedy himself. 'Bout the same. He's bringing Cap."

"What, Bruce didn't come? I'm hurt." He moved around a tree, using the scepter as a cane once more, ever deeper into the forest. He shivered. "Can anyone else hear us?"

"Just me. You want me to get others on the line?"

"No," Clint said quickly. Then, quieter, "No. I've got some blood loss, Tony. And it's cold out here."

Tony was quiet a long moment. Then, "JARVIS, boost some extra power to the thrusters, hey? Let's see if we can shave some time off this bad boy."

**

Clint didn't know how long he'd been moving. Explosions and screams had long since faded to the distant past. If he kept moving, he stayed warm. If he kept moving, he put more space between himself and the scepter, and Loki.

The scepter made a good enough cane; he swung it side to side, tapping the ground at each end of the arc as well as just in front of his feet, checking the ground.

"Where are you, Stark?" he asked his phone, lips numb and teeth chattering. Everything hurt. His muscles cramped. He didn't dare unwrap his shirt and jacket from the scepter; Loki could move faster than he could, than any human could, and he didn't need to shine a beacon.

"Fifteen minutes out, Avatar. Keep moving, I've got you on radar."

"A-avatar, huh?" The tip of the spear dropped suddenly, thunking low before finding earth. Clint reeled to a stop. He moved the scepter, feeling for the ground. Water rushed nearby, and it took him longer than it should have to put the two together: there was a creek cut into the forest below, creating a cliff.

He squatted, shuffled closer until he felt the earth starting to give, and dipped the scepter down.

The creek didn't sound like it was too far away, but farther than the four feet or so that the scepter could reach.

"It's the end of my line, Tony," Clint muttered. "I can go right or left, but not forward."

"Go right."

He turned and started that way, tapping the scepter in a wide arc to search out trees, bushes, and the edge of the embankment.

A voice carried through the forest. It wound around the ivy and seeped into the bushes. It reached into Clint's chest and froze his heart. "Oh, Agent Barton. A little birdy told me you were hiding out here. That you'd stolen something that belongs to me. Why don't you come out and play? Maybe I'll give you your eyesight back."

Clint closed his eyes. Slowly, silently, he reached for his phone. Held it to his mouth. Murmured on a breath, "Mute all." He had to be leaving a trail that anyone could follow. He took a step toward the embankment, finding the edge. He sat, hoping he was right about the creek being not too far down, and dropped over it.

The landing jarred his knees, hips, and spine. His ankle, sprained what felt like forever ago, held up all right. Water splashed over the tops of his boots, soaking his jeans. It traveled up past his knees swiftly, stealing his breath. He staggered and hit the side of the little cliff, leaning against it.

"Barton." The voice was definitely closer this time. "Don't be difficult. Stop wasting my time, and I might let you live. You could be my right hand man when I come conquering. Wouldn't you like that? Maybe I'll even let you keep your precious Natasha. I remember you asking if you could convince her to join us. 'Oh, Loki, I'm sure I could turn her.'" He laughed.

Whatever they'd done to him on Asgard, he was completely unhinged. Clint pushed into motion, staying close to the cliff, shuffling his feet on the creek bed to keep from stepping and splashing. He moved as fast as he could, quietly.

His feet burned with cold, and his hand burned where he'd first grabbed the scepter. He felt queasy and dizzy. He kept going, one foot in front of the other.

Right up until he ran into something. Nasty, snarling things sticking out from the cliff face. He started to fight with them until he realized it was a root system. The system from a great tree, up above.

How long until Tony got there?

How likely he could out-run Loki? Loki would have lost the trail in the water. Moving would only create splashing.

He tucked himself into the tree, closing his eyes so they didn't glint, holding the scepter close.

The cold took him. He locked his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He could barely take a breath, and he couldn't feel the scepter anymore. He focused on tightening his grip, just in case.

Loki's voice traveled the creek bed, singsonging as he moved. Clint took a deeper breath. Loki was moving away.

And then there was breath on his face. "You did stop moving. How kind of you."

Clint didn't think. He swung the scepter out and up, slamming it between Loki's legs.

"Ungrateful whelp," Loki snarled, grabbing Clint's throat and hauling him out again. "I spare your life and you--"

Something bright slammed into Loki, speeding him away. Bright enough that even Clint caught sight of it in his peripheral vision. Clint staggered with the force, splashing into the water, still holding the scepter. Then the glow was back, snatching him up out of the creek bed, blasting off into the air.

"Clamp up, Robin Hood," Tony said, voice coming out through the helmet. "Thor and Cap are on their way to keep the Mad Hatter back there from following. Hang on to the scepter, huh?"

"Yeah," Clint chattered, hanging onto it for all he was worth while Tony, metal hands linked under Clint's armpits, flew on.

**

Footsteps in the corridor. Voices outside the door. Clint curled under blankets, a shudder working its way down his back. The door opened.

"Hypothermia? Really?"

He smiled, tucked beneath everything. "Hey, Nat."

Something rattled at the end of his bed: the clipboard holding his medical chart. "Cap and Thor were able to take down Loki. He's back in Asgard -- again. Thor assures us that they'll be more careful this time, and asks that if you aren't _too_ angry with him, maybe you could have sex when you're feeling up to it." A pause and then, "That, by the way, is not the sort of message I'm going to carry except in dire circumstances."

Clint chuckled, tension he'd been unaware of easing out of him. "And the unit that was trying to summon Loki?"

"We think we rounded them all up. They've got a dozen books on summoning gods, which was a little creepy. Thor assures us that half of the books are useless, but they're all getting locked up until our guys can have a look at them." Nat fell quiet for a minute. "You did good. Blind and all."

Clint's mouth twisted in a wry smile. He missed it. Even blind he'd felt more alive than he had in the weeks in his apartment, getting around and learning braille. A final taste of action, and he didn't know how he was going to survive living without it.

Before Clint could say anything, a brash voice boomed down the hall. "The service here is _terrible_. No, don't stop me. I'm an Avenger, and he's a doctor."

"Well, yeah, but--" Bruce began.

Tony over-wrote him. "Here we are. You just like being the man of the hour, don't you? Fury has the scepter. I suggested he give you a purple heart, but he says not unless you quit." A chair scraped across the floor. "Lovely scarification job on your hand, there, by the way. The ladies really go for that."

"Fuck off," Clint said, but he was smiling as he said it. "Where's Steve?"

"Following orders. They told him to stay in the waiting room, so..." Tony trailed off. The implied shrug was almost audible.

"I'm going to go get him," Nat practically growled. The clack of her heeled boots sounded annoyed, and Clint could almost picture her stalking down the hall.

"Her badge ought to grease the wheels," Clint said. "Enough to make Steve happy."

"While it's just the three of us here, I have something stupid and reckless to suggest," Tony said. "I know you can't see it, but I'm holding out a syringe. Inside is a compound of--"

"They're nanobots," Bruce interrupted before Tony could launch into too much detail. "Tony made them to scrub electronics--"

" _Complex_ electronics," Tony interjected.

Bruce kept on as if he hadn't spoken. "--but we've been adapting them to work on human tissue. They have about a five-minute life span, and we've imbued them with stem cells -- your stem cells, from skin Tony took from you while you were drugged the last time." Bruce's tone picked up, excited. "They have an IPS cell payload, now, so once we inject the 'bots they should disperse through your eye, attaching either to your retina or the back wall of your eye. An electromagnetic pulse will draw the bots together, and the IPS cells will integrate the detached portions of your retina back into the neuronal network linking up to the optic nerve."

Tony took it up. "We also adapted the scrubbing feature, so they'll grab any scar tissue or dead cells and when we pull the 'bots out of your eyes, it'll take all that junk with it."

Clint thought he maybe sort of understood. He took a breath, trying not to get his hopes up. "So... you inject these things into my eyes, it makes the nerves or whatever re-grow and gets rid of the detritus?"

"You've got it," Tony said.

They could have just _said_ that. Clint licked his lips, wetting them. "How do you get the nanobots back out?"

Tony sounded gleeful. "A needle and a really little magnet. We'll also inject," his voice got airy, "stuff--"

"A bit of growth hormone," Bruce interrupted, "some nutrients, a--"

"-- _stuff_ which will encourage the stem cells to do their thing," Tony finished.

"Really low levels of hormones," Bruce said quickly. "You should realize there are definitely risks here. If the numbers are wrong and the growth hormone is too much, you'll get too many blood vessels and you'll go blind."

"Or," Tony added, "if we can't get the bots out, they'll start banging around in there and you'll go blind."

"Or if we don't have _enough_ growth hormone--"

"Or the stem cells just don't do what they should--"

"Or if the hormone affects cells other than the injected IPS cells--"

Clint cut them off. "Okay! So I'm totally blind in my left eye now, and all these things could go wrong, but then I'll just be blind anyway. Are any of them going to kill me?"

"No," Bruce said slowly, as if he had to think about it carefully. "I think we solved those problems. Just make you blind."

Clint purposefully didn't think about the way Bruce had answered that. His heartbeat picked up. They were telling him, in a cautious fashion, that he might be able to see again. That there was hope again. "Well, I'm already blind so... let's do it. At least in my left eye."

"Now?" Tony asked. "We think we should do it now, so if something _does_ go wrong, we're already in the hospital."

"Yeah," Clint said, butterflies in his stomach. "Now."

"You got it," Tony said with disturbing glee, and a cap popped off. A needle, Clint assumed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Clint pushed out from under the blankets, sitting up. "How about Bruce does the stabbing part?"

"What?" Bruce said, startled. "I don't -- I mean, in a pinch I can diagnose and do some treatments, but overall I'm the wrong kind of doctor for--"

Nat spoke, sounding irate as she came back into the room. "What is going on here?"

"Close the door," Tony said, and the door closed a moment later.

Clint explained. "They're injecting something into my eye that might cure my blindness."

Steve had apparently made it past security, too, because he asked, "Is that a good idea?"

Clint shrugged. "I'm blind, anyway."

"But I'm not-- I don't think I should be doing this," Bruce said.

"No actual doctor is going to okay this," Tony pointed out with asperity. "This is so far from FDA testing it's over the moon."

"For the love of God, give me that," Natasha snapped. Clint felt people reaching over him, and then Nat's hand on his chest, pushing him down. "Don't blink."

"Do you know _how_ to give eye injections?" Clint asked.

"I was trained in torture techniques."

"Slightly different!"

"Don't be a baby. Like you said, you're already blind. Steve, hold his head still. Bruce, how far in do I inject?"

Clint didn't point out that he wasn't going to flinch away from something he couldn't see, and Steve didn't, therefore, need to hold his head.

"Just, about this far," Bruce said.

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Steve muttered, but he stood at Clint's head and cupped his hands lightly along Clint's ears.

Natasha straddled him, her chest against his, her elbows braced on either side of his neck. He could feel her breath on his jaw, brushes of skin against his cheek. And then finger-curling pressure against the white of his eye. A spike of pain, nothing too bad, and the sensation that his eyeball was going to burst, which was horrific. "Oh God, oh God," he muttered, feet tensing and hands twisting the sheets. Steve's palms got suddenly firm on his head.

"How much of this do I inject?" Nat muttered.

"All of it," Tony told her.

"Jesus, that's enough!" Clint snapped. His skin crawled. Then the sting was gone, and Nat sat up, and he closed his eyes tightly as if that might help. "Next time, we sedate me first!"

"Next time?" Steve asked, alarmed. "How often does this happen?"

"Oh, well, once more to pull the 'bots out, and then again if it works but doesn't work well enough. Until it's better, I think." Tony sounded utterly blase about the whole thing.

"Shit. Valium next time," Clint breathed, trying not to rub his eyes.

"So," Tony said, "you're coming back to the Tower, right?"

"What?"

"Well, we can't do treatments if you're in Atlanta. So you're coming back to the Tower." He paused a beat, then added, "You can't stay here. What else are you going to do?"

**

They bundled Clint up in blankets and thermals, and Tony flew him back to the Tower, just skimming the tops of trees and buildings, staying low enough to keep the pressure change from hurting his eyes.

Clint had asked Steve to stay behind and explain things to Ally. He grinned smugly when Steve called to say he'd be extra late; they were going to breakfast.

And just like that, the pattern of his life shifted again. He spent almost all his time in Bruce's lab, doped up on a chemical mix that, Bruce assured him, was just the chemical form of Valium without the fancy sticker price, letting people poke needles into his bad eye and being too loopy to really care.

They added vicodin to the mix of drugs when his first words as the valium wore off were, "Ow. Ow. Ow ow ow _ow_ \--"

Bruce made him wear an eye patch. "Your eye's under a fair amount of trauma, with all the needles," he said. "It's just for a few days."

Nat laughed at him and called him Nick Barton. "When you go bald," she said, "I'll call you Clint Fury. Until then, you only get his first name."

He would have tackled her, he really would have, if he hadn't been so high on pain killers and anti-anxiety meds.

Everyone came to visit over those first few days. Clint propositioned most of them, and when Thor showed up (vowing that Loki was safely ensconced), Clint told Bruce that Bruce should lick Thor and see what he tasted like.

"Uh..." Bruce said, with a nervous chuckle. "No thanks."

Eventually, they stopped poking needles into his eye, and he started wandering around the Tower again. He spent time in the audible archery range, wheedled Nat into reading to him, watched TV with Thor, and had long conversations with Pepper while Tony wandered in and out of them at random.

Everything was in stasis. Waiting.

**

"All right," Bruce said, entering the community level through the stairwell door. Clint turned toward the sound, feeling a little queasy. "Are we all set?"

"As we'll ever be," Clint muttered. He was seated at the dining room table, fingers gripping the arms of the chair. He loosened his grip and massaged his knuckles, careful of the still-healing skin where the ropes had taken it off, and trying not to notice the expectant silence.

"Close your eye," Bruce said, standing behind him. "And tip your head back. I'm going to take off the eye patch and put some drops in, so even if your vision is fine it'll be blurry for a little while. But don't expect it to be fine. With luck, you'll be able to see some light and shadows, and maybe with time we can improve it. Refine the technique. All right?"

Clint nodded, licked his lips, and swallowed to work up spit. "Yeah." He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, feeling Bruce sweep off the eye patch that was like a second skin.

"Open."

He did. There was light. _Light_. A shape above him, in the moment before Bruce put the eye drops in. Then the light was still there, but everything was blurred.

There was more light in his bad eye than his good eye. Clint kept his head back to let the drops absorb, but couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. He clamped down on it.

"Clint?" Pepper, voice high and tight like a kid at Christmas.

"I-- ah -- I can see the ceiling. Or at least, that it's white."

"Good," Bruce said quietly, a hand on his shoulder, stable and solid. "That's good."

It was more than he'd ever expected to see again. The eye drops were running out of the corner of his eye, except then he realized it was _both_ eyes, and he closed them against any more tears.

It was dark.

He opened them again.

It was light. God, he loved the light. He'd forgotten how much he loved the light and the sunshine and the beauty of it all.

"Another minute, and then you can look up, okay?" Bruce said.

Nat's hand threaded through his fingers. He squeezed, tightly.

Everything was silent.

"Don't expect clarity," Bruce cautioned, and then, "Okay."

Clint lifted his head.

People sat around the table, watching him. The whole team. He could see Nat on one side, blurry with a halo of red around her face. Thor stood at her shoulder, arms crossed over his broad schnapps-tasting chest. A dark T-shirt stood out, but his hair blended with his skin, all shades of blond with no real definition. Steve sat across from Clint, or at least he figured it had to be Steve, the only other blond on the team. Then Tony, a pale blob with dark splashes at eyes and hair. Pepper sat on Clint's other side, scooted closer than Nat, watching him. If he squinted, he could make out a thin nose and maybe blue eyes, hair that was longer than Nat's and not quite as red.

He smiled, and laughed, and had to stop laughing because it sounded too much like relief. "You're very lovely, Ms Potts."

She laughed and looked at Bruce, who was standing just behind Clint.

"Okay," Bruce said, coming around. "Let me take a look." He stooped, and with a little hand-held light looked into Clint's eye. He sat back after a minute. "Tell me what you see. Can you see my expression?"

Clint squinted again, trying to bring features into focus. "Yes," he said slowly. "It's blurry, but yes."

"Can you see Tony's expression?"

Clint looked toward Tony, and knew without trying that it wasn't possible. He shook his head.

"Can you see Tony?"

"I can see him waving," Clint said on a half-laugh. He couldn't seem to get his breathing under control. It kept shuddering.

Nat's hand tightened on his.

"Can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?"

He looked back at Bruce, focusing once more. "Two...? No, three."

"Yeah." Bruce sat back on his haunches. Clint watched. He could _see_ Bruce sitting back on his haunches. "Better than I thought," Bruce said, with a smile in his voice and on his face. A slash of white teeth in the blur. "Much better than I thought."

"Of course it is," Tony said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out. "I was directly involved."

Pepper reached over and slapped his chest gently. "You."

"It's not going to get worse," Clint said, suddenly fearful. "It's not going to reverse or something, right?"

It was Steve who spoke. "No. Bruce has been talking about it non-stop. Once it's healed, it's healed. There's a chance it won't get better, but it won't get worse."

"And we can keep doing injections," Bruce added. "I think if it's done this well so far, we can build on that. In both eyes," he added.

A rush went through Clint, and he pulled Nat's hand over, drawing her close and reaching around to envelope her in a hug. He needed to hug _someone_.

She patted his back, laughing at him.

"I never thought I'd see you again," he murmured into her hair.

Wordless, her grip tightened on him before she let him go.

The people around the table had broken into conversation and laughter, standing and moving around. And he could see them. He could see Tony's hand at the small of Pepper's back, possessive and cradling and absent-minded all at once. He could see the way Bruce stepped away, watching them all with his arms crossed, separate, observing, but smiling with them. Thor clapped Steve on the back, and even Steve caught his balance before nodding along to Thor's booming cheer. And there was Nat, dark clothes in the center of brightness, thumbs hooked in the pockets of her pants, watching everyone with a self-containment that went beyond simple quietness.

Clint stood up with the others, tracking the group as they closed in, hands slapping at his back and shoulders, Steve reaching out and Clint being able to reach back, to shake hands without a prompt and awkwardness.

"Congratulations," Steve said, undercutting Thor's demand for a celebration.

"In Asgard, we would rejoice with mead and women!" Thor declared, slinging an arm around Clint's shoulders.

Clint staggered under the weight, laughing. "I can't have alcohol on the pain meds. How about Gatorade, and Nat and Pepper might join us?"

"Very well," Thor said, letting Clint go and striding forward. "I shall bring -- what do you call them -- 'munchies' to the den!"

Nat slipped up beside him, tucking her arm around his waist. He did the same. "Glad to see you on the mend," she said mildly.

He grinned. "Glad to be back."

**

Epilogue

Clint sipped coffee at the island in the community kitchen, listening to Tony prattle on about whatever exciting thing his nanobots were doing now. As long as they kept improving Clint's sight -- which was now 20/80 in one eye and 20/40 in the other -- he didn't really care about epilepsy research. Good for the epileptics, he supposed.

He was waiting for an opportunity to excuse himself -- Tony would go on forever, if you let him -- when Tony turned away to butter freshly popped toast.

With a small smile, Clint stepped back and padded silently on bare feet out of the kitchen while Tony kept on talking, oblivious. He passed Steve in the hall, giving a wordless salute -- Steve always gave them back, crisp like he was still in the military -- but then paused as Steve entered the kitchen.

"Tony?" Steve asked. "...Who are you talking to?"

Clint turned. He could see Steve, but Tony was lost around the corner.

Tony spoke. "Clint--" A beat. "Son of a bitch."

Clint grinned, sipped his coffee, and headed down to his apartment.

**************  
End

JB


End file.
